Surviving
by Divine Sally Bowles
Summary: AU RM. Still reeling from separate tragedies, Ryan and Marissa have put the O.C. far behind them and moved to the same snowy NY town. Meeting by chance in a support group for the bereaved, they learn to live again and how to heal each other.
1. The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

**A/N: Hi, everyone! This is my first Ryan/Marissa fic and my first fic for The O.C. in general, and I'm really excited to start posting it here. Updates will hopefully be fairly regular, but I am a college student with limited time as well as other projects, so that's negligible. But given that this is my first fic for this category, I'd really appreciate reviews. It's AU, so some characterizations (Julie, for instance) might be different from how they turned out in canon. The circumstances of this AU will be more fully explained as things go on. **

**Again, please review, and have a happy Thanksgiving!**

* * *

Surviving

I.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

_Monday, November 30th, 2015_

None of the twenty-eight Christmases of his life have ever seemed this hard. When he'd lived with his mother and Trey in Chino, they'd never been Christmas people. Holidays were something they didn't have money for and never paid attention to. The Cohens had changed that, had given him a little something of the holiday spirit.

For the past two years, though, he hasn't been able to get back into it. He has moved from the sunny OC to the frigidity of upstate New York, and he sees the Cohens for the holidays and only a few other times a year. He has just lost his holiday spirit, period.

A well-meaning neighbor had stopped by the day before—her name was Terri, he was pretty sure. She was in her early forties and surely on her way to becoming one of those neighborhood busybodies in a decade or two more. She arrived on his doorstep with a plate of Christmas cookies, smiling irrepressibly even when he opened it in his pajamas and bathrobe, with a few day's worth of stubble still on his face and a somewhat exhausted frown.

"Hi, Ms. Longenfeld," he said, with a weary air. "Is there anything you needed?"

"No, not at all, Ryan. Thank you, though, for asking. I just wanted to give you these—" she practically thrust the plate into his hands "—and see if you needed any help with decorations. I noticed you have none put up."

She made a gesture to the outside of his house, which was the only bare one on the block. He caught her almost imperceptibly craning her neck, attempting to check the inside—surely no one could be such a Scrooge as to have _none_ of his house decorated? It appeared she would not stand for it. He shifted slightly to block her view, giving her a hollow but somewhat believable smile.

"No, thanks, Mrs. Longenfeld. I'm just not much into the holiday spirit this year."

"Well, if you change your mind, just come on by and I can set you up with some of the extra Christmas lights," said Mrs. Longenfeld cheerily. "Have a nice day, Ryan."

"You too, Mrs. Longenfeld. Thanks."

He spends this day in his living room, which is, as Mrs. Longenfeld suspected, bare of any holiday decorations. He has not mustered up a single ornament or holiday photo. The remnants of his Christmas-celebrating life sit in a box in the attic, one that he should have thrown away two years ago but has somehow hung onto.

It is only the Monday after Thanksgiving, but already the holiday commercials have started. He wishes they would have the courtesy to wait until a few more days, even if December is starting tomorrow. It is always a slap in the face, how suddenly the holiday season comes on; he thought so even before he stopped celebrating.

The phone rings as he flips through channels, trying to find any network that is not running a Christmas commercial. He stops on one showing a mindless game show, and the answering machine does its job. He has no outgoing message; there does not seem to be a need. Anyone calling the number knows that he lives here and lives alone.

"_Ryan, it's Kirsten. I'm just calling to say that we missed you at Thanksgiving, and we really wanted to know if you'd be coming out for Chrismukkah dinner."_ There is a faint laugh behind her words; clearly she still finds the thought of her son's super holiday amusing.

"_We know it's been hard for you these past two years, but we'd really like to see you around here again. It would be nice to have the family together. I also wanted to know if you'd thought about restarting your business? I know some people out in your area that would be willing to help you get it up and running again._

"_We just want to hear from you again—about anything. Whether or not you're coming for dinner, just give us a call. All right? We love you. Good-bye, Ryan."_

He appreciates Kirsten's efforts to reach out. He does. She and Sandy have tried their hardest the past few years. They made him stay over their place for a few weeks afterwards, not wanting him alone. Sandy stops by every once in a while, makes an excuse about seeing friends in New York, but Ryan knows it's a lie. He knows it's a lie the same way he does when Seth comes across the country with the excuse that a band is in town and he is dragging Summer to their concert, and hey, isn't that concert right by Ryan's place?

He looks at the clock, then outside, not having realized how late it has gotten. He has somewhere to be, the same place he has gone twice weekly for the past year, but he doesn't see it helping. It hasn't yet—why would it?

But he still has to go, so he gets up and gets dressed and heads out the door, getting in his car and heading off to the place he is meant to be.

* * *

She stands in the shower, under the scalding water, for as long as she can. The water is so hot that her skin feels almost cold—numb, certainly, just like the rest of her.

It has been six months, but it still does not feel any different than it did the day after it happened, a week later, a month. Her things are still here. Her shampoo and conditioner still sit in the plastic bath rack, hanging from the shower head. Her toothbrush and razor still sit on the sink. Her towel still hangs from the back of the door.

The only thing that's missing is her medication. Most of it had been gone anyway, but she'd taken the initiative of flushing it herself the day after it happened. There wasn't a point to it anymore, right?

She gets out of the shower after turning off the water, standing in the cold for few seconds before she wraps herself in one towel and her hair in another. She waits for the steamy mirror to clear before she begins brushing out her hair. The motions of it are simple, and she doesn't have to think. She doesn't feel like thinking anymore.

She doesn't even know why she agreed to go out tonight, when she doesn't think it will help. Talking never really did. When she'd been at the _recovery center_ (airquote, airquote) in San Diego, that had been all they'd ever wanted her to do. Talk, talk, talk. She never had, and eventually they'd given up on her, letting her out as soon as they could.

She'd never gone back to Newport. She'd gone to a private school in San Diego and then on to Pepperdine University. Julie had never wanted her to come back to Newport, anyway—wanted to keep her away from Ryan, Summer, her father, any of the people that really _meant_ something to her. Never had she once considered that it would probably have _helped_ her.

She doubts this support group will. It was one of those places where you got together to talk and cry and bond over losing a loved one, because that wasn't almost as depressing as the loss itself, was it? It was supposed to be uplifting, having people to share your grief with. She honestly thought it was bullshit, but a neighbor had very kindly recommended it and offered—with little room for refusal—to drive her. Marissa had said thank you, and maybe she would. She couldn't really back out now that it was the day of.

After she dries off, she gets dressed in a white sweater and a worn-out pair of jeans, throwing her coat on over that. She has never gotten used to how frigid New York can get in the winter. It used to be fifty degrees on Christmas in Newport. In upstate New York, it's fifty below.

Her neighbor is waiting on her porch, bundled against the cold. She is in her early thirties, not much older than Marissa, but she is married with two small boys and a dog, that perfect suburban housewife. Her name is Janet. She smiles as Marissa comes out onto the porch and locks the door behind her.

"I was hoping you hadn't changed your mind. Well, we'd better get going; wouldn't want you showing up late to your first meeting," she says cheerily, leading Marissa carefully down the slightly iced-over walkway. "How have you been doing lately?"

"Better," Marissa lies, the words coming off her lips without thought, and, she thinks, sounding almost believable. She wonders if the people in the support group will do the same thing, this effortless lying, or if they will all be the sobbing, hysterical types she'd seen in the _recovery center_. And some recovery center it had been—she didn't think she'd ever seen any of those girls stop crying.

The support group is held in one room of the community center. She has been here before once or twice, for town dances or for food drives. Either way, she recognizes it—just as she thinks she recognizes the man leaning against a telephone pole, lighting a cigarette, as they pull into the driveway.

A familiar feeling stirs in her veins. It is not the craving for nicotine, but the craving for something else entirely. She wonders if he recognizes her, if he remembers. She gets out of the car almost as soon as Janet stops and gives her a quick thank you. And she slowly walks over to the man she's sure she knows.

* * *

"Who are you?"

He looks up, like he is about to answer, before she sees the recognition set in and his eyes widen. She has chosen her words deliberately in the few seconds she had to think it over.

"_Who are you?"_

"_Whoever you want me to be."_

He takes the cigarette out from between his lips, stunned. "Marissa?"

"Ryan." She smiles faintly, and even that small action feels as if she hasn't done it in years. It's funny how quickly she has forgotten.

"It's been… what, twelve years?"

"Yeah." She flicks her hair back behind her ear and motions to the pack of cigarettes in his hand. "Can I bum one off you?"

He hands it to her just as he did that day, lighting it with his own lit one rather than the lighter. The action is strangely intimate. She inhales, taking in the scent of the smoke and the scent of him as it reaches her on the wind. He smells like soap and a faint, spicy aftershave.

"When did you come to New York?" she asks, noticing that he is even more silent than he was that first day in Newport.

"About a year and a half ago. You?"

"After college. Pepperdine."

"UC Berkeley. Cold enough for you?"

"Yeah, I think so." She laughs a little, and that, too, feels foreign. She wonders what he is here for, and asks.

"Support group." She looks up in surprise, in time to catch the eye roll that accompanies the words. He catches her surprise and starts to say that it isn't normally his thing, but she stops him.

"No. That's not why I was surprised… well, it sort of was. That's… what I'm here for."

It is his turn to look surprised, and he does. There is a moment of shared hesitation as they wonder—should they ask? Do they want to be the nosy people they always hate, the people who wonder how, when, why it happened? Do they open that sore now or do they rip off the band aid later?

The decision is made for them when Ryan looks at his watch—time to go in. He ashes his cigarette on the sidewalk and waits for her to do the same. _Now or never,_ his expression says, and she feels a strange sense of something beginning as she leaves the ashes on the sidewalk and follows him inside.


	2. Drink Me

**I decided to put up Chapter 2 a little early since I was getting a few anticipatory responses! I'm glad you're all enjoying it so far and that you're all curious. I will hopefully have Chapter 3 done within the next few days! Reviews are much appreciated! ("Drink Me", the title of this chapter, is a song by Anna Nalick. Also, _The OC_ belongs to Josh Schwartz and not me, though I certainly wish Ryan was mine...)**

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II.

Drink Me

"_It's the first Thanksgiving we've had without her. I realized I never really knew how to make a turkey. I had to go online and Google it. That was the worst part of all: I never realized before how much she hadn't taught me…"_

"_I put out the wrong number of place settings. I didn't even notice until my daughter said to me, 'Daddy, why'd you put one in front of Mommy's chair?'"_

"_I'm starting to hear the Christmas songs on the radio again. He always used to love Christmas songs. I used to make fun of him for having so many CDs of them…"_

The stories are all the same. They're all about the little things you never notice, and the things Marissa is sure don't matter to anyone else but the person telling the story. Well, maybe she is being unfair. Judging by the number of people nodding along and crying, the stories clearly mean something to _them_. And maybe they would to her, if she really thought about it.

But her mind is on anything else but the tales of the other members, which is really the point of the group. Her mind is on Ryan, who is sitting stoically, arms crossed, brooding like he always did back in Newport. It surprises her that so little has changed, and yet that everything seems to have changed.

Why is he here? She cannot fathom it. She'd come to upstate New York to get away from the rush of California—eventually she had realized that the environment of California, the constant pressure to keep up, might have been contributing to her problems. She'd needed a place to calm down, and she'd found one.

But Ryan had had such a life going for him back in Newport, or at least, he had when she'd met him. She didn't understand why he was out here, in this place where nothing happened and nothing ever would, attending a support group for the bereaved.

And from the sounds of it, it was one he'd been attending for a while. The counselor running the group, a man named Jeff, had said a warm hello and asked how he was. Ryan had given a noncommittal response and moved on. Marissa had not been so lucky; she had been snared by Jeff and made to endure the ritual of introducing the newcomer. _"Everyone, this is Marissa. Her loss occurred six months ago. She's new here, so everyone welcome her…"_

"_Now, you're not required to speak," _Jeff had told her as everyone filtered in. _"We would really like it if you did, but some people don't grieve in that way and we're fine with that. Ryan—you met him—he's been coming for a year now and I don't think we've ever heard him say a word beyond introducing himself. But if you want to speak up, feel free. We meet twice weekly—Mondays and Thursdays."_

She wonders why it is that Ryan hasn't spoken. She knows part of it is just who he is, but it seems odd to her that he has been coming for a year and still has not felt the need to say anything. Who has he lost? She can't remember hearing anything about his life after they'd parted ways. She'd lost contact with Summer; her mom cutting her off from everyone had seen to that. She didn't really know about his life, did she?

Then again, he doesn't know about hers. She isn't quite sure she's ready to tell yet, either. He hasn't made any move to say anything to her about his own loss; she thinks maybe neither of them are ready to go there yet. For now, silence will be fine.

She tries again to focus on the stories being told, but Ryan is more interesting. The stories all seem to be hitting the same notes—the person had died too soon, hadn't taught them what they were supposed to, had so much in front of them, didn't get to be a grandmother or grandfather, an aunt or uncle, a big sister or brother. Tonight, she can't bring herself to focus on the grief of others, not when her own still feels raw and painful, even after six months.

Without being obvious, or at least she hopes not, she takes him in again, focusing more on the details. Given the cold weather and the fact that it's been twelve years, he appears to have graduated from his white wifebeater fixation and is wearing a gray t-shirt that nonetheless hugs his muscles. And she will admit to herself that he still looks _good_. His hair is shorter and better trimmed. There is the barest trace of scruff along his jaw; he hasn't shaven for a few days.

Vaguely, she hears Jeff say that time is up and that they will, as usual, meet again on Thursday. Ryan gets up to leave, but he lingers by the exit, and as she gathers her purse, she realizes he is waiting for her. She finds herself smiling a little as she approaches him and follows him outside.

Her phone buzzes with a text message from Janet, telling her that she is running late and won't be able to pick her up for at least another hour. Marissa tells her it's all right, and can't help but think this is fate—she can spend more time with Ryan.

"Thought you might want to play some catchup," he says as they halt outside the front doors, pointing across the street. "There's a decent bar if you don't mind a drink."

He knows her well, she thinks, or at least, _knew_ her. She tries not to drink to excess anymore, and in the last few years, she has really cut down on her habit. A part of her fears she'll lose control, but another minute's thought reminds her that she is with Ryan. She feels safe with him, knows nothing will happen around him. No harm will come to her. He has rescued her before.

She nods in agreement and starts across the street with him. The ground is icy, and he reaches out one of his hands and rests it on her lower back to steady her. The light pressure of his hand on her back, reassuring and solid, is enough to send sparks of heat down her spine. She suddenly finds herself wondering what it would feel like to be wrapped in those arms. He has carried her twice before—into the pool house, out of the alley—but she can't remember either of them. She wishes she could, now.

The bar is small and vaguely smoky. She sees the barkeep give Ryan a familiar nod and greet him by name. Memories tug at her as she remembers Tijuana, remembers the last time she let herself lose control in a place like this. But there is still Ryan's hand on her back, still the knowledge that Ryan is the one who saved her.

She sits at a booth while Ryan goes to the bar and returns with two beers. He opens hers by lightly smacking the neck of the bottle against the table, enough to loosen the cap, and hands it to her. "It's been a while," is all he says at first. After another minute: "I tried a few times to get in touch with you. Your mother was against it."

"Believe me, I know." Marissa rolls her eyes. "I fought her on coming back to Newport. Guess she thought people would talk; didn't want me back there."

"I guess part of that's my fault. She always said I was a bad influence," He looks around the bar and she thinks she catches his lips twitching faintly upward. "Guess she'd still say that now."

"No, no. This isn't bad. It's…" She fishes for words and takes another sip of the beer. Liquid courage? Maybe. "It's helpful. It helped, having someone I knew in there."

Again, both of them pause. She is the one who breaks the silence this time. "Jeff says you never talk. Why do you go if you don't?"

He shrugs, taking another swig of beer before he answers. "Because there's no one else around. Living alone… only person I see is a nosy neighbor, from time to time. Sometimes it's just nice to be around people after being alone for days on end."

It strikes her that it hurts to hear that. In Newport, he'd been a loner, but she'd at least seen that he was being taken care of, that he had people around him who loved him—the Cohens had done him good. Now, though, it looks like he has no one, just like her.

"You can always call," Marissa offers. "I live the next town over. I could come by with a movie or some takeout…"

She makes the offer hesitantly, not sure if he'll accept. She's not sure if she's the only one wanting sparks to fly, hoping that they already have. They missed their connection the first time around; it had been ruined by bad choices and unfortunate timing. She glances up from her beer for a second and unintentionally locks gazes with Ryan.

"That neighbor is keeping me well-supplied with food," Ryan says, a beat later. "But yeah. That sounds nice." He scrawls his number on a napkin and passes it to her. She does the same with another, handing it back to him.

They make vague small talk for the rest of their hour, and Marissa finds herself treading very delicately, still avoiding the very obvious question of _why_ he was at the group, besides the desire for human contact. She notices that he doesn't broach the subject of why _she_ was there, either. When Marissa gets the text from Janet saying that she's back at the community center and waiting, she gets up, slightly buzzed from two beers, and smiling.

"I have a ride back to my place. Are you okay to drive?" she asks, and Ryan waves a hand.

"I don't live that far; I can walk."

"You sure? It's cold out…"

"And you live in the opposite direction. I'll leave the car at the center and get it tomorrow; I've done it before."

That has her picturing it—has he spent the last year of his life drinking alone after a support group for grieving relatives? His life now seems horribly depressing, and again it hits her how much that hurts her to hear.

Before she can question herself, she leans in and kisses him on the cheek. "It was nice talking to you again, Ryan," she says, with a bit of a smile on her face. "I'll call you sometime before the next meeting, okay?"

"Okay. Get home safe, Marissa."

"You too, Ryan. 'Bye."

* * *

He walks home as he has many times over the past year, treading carefully to avoid the ice. He is not as buzzed as he could be, not even close to drunk, but he does not want to take chances by driving. After seeing numerous examples of it from his mother's fucked-up suitors, he'd always decided that was one thing he never wanted to try, and it had been working for him.

His mind drifts, as he walks, to Marissa Cooper, back in his life now like some ghost from his past. And it's true that in some ways, her appearance earlier had had him wondering for a second if he was, in fact, seeing things. Everything about her manner had suggested she was deliberately invoking their first meeting.

He'd wondered, over the years, if she'd forgotten him. He'd known Julie was probably behind her never contacting him, but still, he'd always wondered if Marissa had even wanted to contact him anyway. But what was he to her? He was the acquaintance with whom she'd had a very, very brief flirtation. They'd shared a cigarette, a dance, a bed… and then nothing.

She's changed. He could see that much. She wasn't drinking heavily, had seemed to rein herself in very well. Her hair was shorter, just hitting her shoulders, though it was still pin straight, still blonde. Her eyes still had that same sparkle that he only really saw when she smiled. But she was thinner—her sweater had been a little too big, her jeans hanging a little loosely from her narrow hips, like she'd lost weight since she'd worn all of it last. She looked paler than he remembered, and it hadn't seemed like it had been from lack of sun.

And there's the question of why _she_ was at the support group in the first place. Neither of them had asked; neither of them had dared. He wonders which one of them will be first. He wonders if he will want to tell her.

One thing he will admit to himself is that he _does_ want to see her again. She'd given him her number, and it hadn't seemed like she was with anyone. Not like last time. He's not sure yet what this could be—or what he _wants_ it to be. But there's no harm in being friends, right?

He lets himself into the darkened house and thinks about the kind of night he's had. _Old ghosts_. Marissa is one. And if tonight he saw a ghost, he figures there's more than enough reason to see two more. He walks into the living room and turns on his laptop.

While he waits for it to boot up, he grabs another beer from the fridge and checks the answering machine—one was left while he was out. He presses the button and uses his bottle opener to open the beer as it plays.

"_Hey, kid. It's Sandy. Kirsten told me she called you, but I figured I'd give you one, too. Let you know that I'll be back down there again soon; a friend of mine asked me to guest lecture in Buffalo. And Kirsten doesn't know, but I'm coming out there with another plane ticket, kid. If you could at least consider heading back to Newport for the holidays… well… I'm sure I don't have to say it. So I'll be stopping by next week. See you then, Ryan."_

The tone sounds and Ryan deletes the message. He gets enough calls from the Cohens in a week that the tape runs out if he doesn't. He's sure Seth's call will be next, then perhaps Summer's. It's just neverending. He calls once or twice a week, but mostly the messages go unanswered.

He sits down at the laptop, now that it is started, and clicks through his folders to find what he is looking for. Like many men, Ryan Atwood has a large folder of videos sitting on his computer. Unlike many men, these videos are barely looked at, accessed only two or three times a year, if that.

"_And here we have the bride and groom, having their first dance… Ryan, say hi to the camera."_

"_Can I say that I'd like the camera to not be quite so close to my face, Seth?"_

"_Oh, shush. We'll have a nice memento of our first dance," Jenna says lightly, brushing an errant red curl over her shoulder and then looking towards the camera herself. "Although it would be great if you could back up a few feet, Seth; you're standing on my train."_

"_Right. Sorry."_

It feels like a lifetime ago, though it's barely been six years. Six years, though, may well be a lifetime. They were twenty-two and just graduating from UC Berkeley. _Ryan and Jenna Atwood_, the announcement in the Newport papers had said. And then, about a year later, the card they'd sent out to relatives and friends: _Ryan and Jenna Atwood announce the arrival of Cody Arthur Atwood…_

The next video in the folder plays; he does not have them organized chronologically, so the next one to come up is—naturally, he thinks, because this is some kind of joke, but one he can't look away from—Jenna and him doing their holiday decorating; she'd insisted on filming everything leading up to baby's first Chrismukkah. Ryan is thumbtacking the stockings to the wall, whereas Jenna is putting ornaments on the tree, Cody held to her hip.

"_Sandy's on latke duty this year, right?" she says as she hangs up a shining red Christmas ball. Cody stretches his little hands towards it, making a happy gurgle as he sees the light reflecting off it._

"_Yeah, same as last year. Same as every year, really; Seth prefers supervising the food making, and my last try at it caused the Great Latke Burning of '03." He finishes getting Cody's stocking up and then walks over to Jenna, relieving her of Cody and lifting him into his arms, then leaning in to kiss her._

"_Mmm, Merry Chrismukkah, Ryan," Jenna murmurs into his lips._

"_Merry Chrismukkah, Jenna."_

He finishes off the last of his beer and lets the videos play on, looking around the living room. No decorations to speak of, seasonal or otherwise. Jenna would've hated it. She always brought along something of her own to brighten up a place, even if it was just a hotel room—there always had to be something.

But all that remains of his life with Jenna and Cody sits upstairs in that box in the attic, and he has no desire to get further involved with _those_ old ghosts.

So he stays on his couch with his alcohol and memories, content to be uncomfortably numb.

* * *

Marissa thanks Janet for the ride and goes back into her house, collapsing on her bed without bothering to undress. She is coming down from the minor buzz, but she is on another one entirely. Her mind is consumed with thoughts of Ryan and all she's learned about his life now.

He lives alone. He lives alone, but he'd been attending a support group for the bereaved. He wasn't close enough to his biological family that she knew of for it to warrant support-group levels if he'd lost any of them, and the Cohens were all still alive and well, as far as she knew. So it had to be a significant other that he'd lost, didn't it?

But _how_ significant? How long ago? And another question lingers on her mind—speaking of significance, how significant is she to him? What does he remember her as—the girl he had a spark with, a connection, or the mess he'd pulled out of an alley in Tijuana, nearly dead?

She'd made the offer to connect with him, and he hadn't rebuffed her. That was something. But there were still so many things they hadn't said to each other, so many things she isn't sure they can avoid talking about.

Like Isobel. She knows she will have to tell him about Isobel eventually, but the thought of doing that anytime soon makes her squeeze her eyes shut and let out a sigh.

It is early yet, but she can feel herself drifting into sleep, lulled into it by thoughts of Ryan and life back in Newport. _Whoever she wants him to be._

She thinks she might have an idea about that one.


	3. Roll Over Me

**A/N: Sorry for the delay, all! I know I said last week, but I had every intention of getting a paper done early and working on the chapter and, well, I didn't! (Life as a college student, what can I tell ya?) Thus, with that paper out of the way, I kept going with this chapter, and I have to say that I'm pleased with how it turned out. I hope you guys think so, too! I was really happy with the response to the last chapter, and even more glad when I saw that even some of you who don't ship RM are still taking the time to read my fic and say such kind words. Thank you all so much; you have no idea how much I appreciate it! "Roll Over Me" is a song by The Autumn Film. Please review (as always) and have a lovely evening!

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**III.

Roll Over Me

_Tuesday and Wednesday, December 1__st__ and 2__nd_

Tuesday morning passes for Ryan as it has most days—uneventfully. These days, he lives off the staples most people would believe only bachelors would, not men who had once been married. Ryan, though, has lived his life mastering the art of the microwave. His childhood in Chino had meant heating up whatever was around or going hungry. He is fairly certain that the last time he had an actual cooked meal was the months he stayed with Sandy and Kirsten after the accident. Since then, life has been a veritable parade of macaroni and cheese, pizza, or takeout.

The kitchen is another thing Jenna would have clucked at. His wife had tried valiantly throughout their marriage to learn to cook, and she'd been getting halfway decent at it. There had always been some kind of food either on the stove, in the oven, or in the fridge or freezer. The cabinets and pantry had been filled with Cody's baby food. Their kitchen had been one of the most well-stocked Ryan had ever seen in his life.

Now, his is bare and there is not much hope of anything filling it any time soon. Mrs. Longenfeld sometimes comes by with food—the Christmas cookies from the day before are an example—but she does not do it often; he knows she is busy and wouldn't want her spending too much time trying to feed him, anyway.

There's a knock at his door sometime around noon, and he gets up to answer it, expecting Mrs. Longenfeld or a few intrepid Girl Scouts. Instead, he finds Sandy.

"Sandy," he says, surprised, and just barely confused. "I thought you said you'd be out here next week."

"I did. But I figured I could come out early and surprise you; you might've cleared out to a hotel if I'd given you any more warning." Sandy quirks his eyebrows and reaches out to hug him. "It's good to see ya, kid."

Ryan returns the hug, but can't really appreciate the ambush. He shouldn't have put it past Sandy, who's arguably been trying the hardest these past two years to get him to do _something_. Sandy was the one who helped him out in the first place, the one he'd always looked to for guidance. Ryan is grown now, a good twelve years older than when Sandy had first met him in Chino, but it doesn't stop Sandy from wanting to help. He doesn't think anything could.

"Let me change," is all he says to Sandy, since he's still in a t-shirt and sweatpants, and he goes upstairs to his bedroom. He prefers to sleep on the couch, so the bedsheets are unruffled, made with the precision of a military man. He tried, the first few nights after he moved into the house, to sleep in the bed, but he'd found that even a change of living situation couldn't get rid of the feeling that Jenna was missing.

He pulls on a better t-shirt and finds a reasonably clean pair of jeans. He combs his hair some, but it doesn't make much of a difference. He needs a shave; he hasn't really been keeping that up recently. Jenna always hated stubble, and he'd always made the effort to be trim for her, but there's no need for that anymore. A thought briefly crosses his mind about Marissa, and he reminds himself to at least make the effort to look better the next time he sees her. For some reason, he doesn't want her to think things are really that bad, even when they are.

When he goes back downstairs, he finds Sandy in the kitchen. He isn't looking around, but he's leaning against the counter, and he straightens as Ryan walks in. "You been eating at all lately? The place looks pretty bare."

"Yeah, I haven't had much time for shopping lately… and my neighbor's been stopping by with food. I'm pretty sure she won't stop until she's given me every recipe in her book."

"Kid, I'm a lawyer. You can't get away with not answering the question," Sandy says, with a small laugh and a pointed look. "I came all the way out here; the least you can do is let me take you to lunch."

As Sandy pointed out, he's a lawyer—it's next to useless to argue with him, or so Ryan has learned over the years. This is also something he's noticed has rubbed off on Kirsten; they brooked no refusal when they'd told him to stay with them after Jenna and Cody's funerals. So he agrees, and Sandy leads him out to his rental car.

Sandy mentions a steakhouse recommended to him by the same friend who'd asked him to lecture, and Ryan agrees, since he'd have no preferences himself anyway, given that eating out has never been his thing since he'd moved here. No point in going out to eat when you're going to eat alone. Drinking alone, on the other hand, that's just fine with him.

"Noticed your car's gone," Sandy says. "Any reason?"

"I had a drink after a meeting last night. Didn't want to drive, so I left it at the community center; I haven't had a chance to walk back over yet to get it."

"How's your shoulder been lately?" Sandy asks, glancing over as he drives and then turning his eyes back to the road when he notices Ryan stiffen slightly.

"Some days are better than others. The humidity makes it worse."

"Still taking the painkillers?"

"No. Hasn't been that bad for a while." Or if it has been, the alcohol has worked just fine to kill the pain, and he just hasn't thought of it.

Silence lingers for a moment before Sandy asks something else. "You mentioned your neighbor coming by every few days. Anyone else you talk to?"

He wonders if he should say something. Word could get back to Julie, and who knows, she could still have it in for him. But then he realizes that he doesn't really care if Julie objects. They're older now; what can she do to them? It's not like she can send Marissa off again.

"Actually, I ran into someone yesterday. Marissa Cooper."

Genuine surprise crosses Sandy's face, and that's not an easy thing to do: being a lawyer, he's seen it all. "Really, now? There's a name none of us have heard in a while."

"Tell me about it. Here, of all places."

"Guess you can't outrun the past." Sandy says it before realizing he's probably speaking to the right person for that one. Isn't that what Ryan's done?

They keep quiet until they reach the steakhouse and get out of the car, until they're seated and given menus by the waiter.

"Speaking of the past," Sandy says after they've given the menus enough contemplation, "Kirsten heard from the McKeevers. They're thinking of coming by for Christmas dinner." He pauses before adding, "If you're okay with that, that is."

Ryan senses the unspoken sentence: _if you even come at all._ He doesn't want to hurt Kirsten and Seth by not coming—it's Kirsten's dinner and Seth's holiday. And it's more than obvious that Sandy's trying his damnedest right now; the ambush and the plane ticket he mentioned in the answering machine have made that clear. He knows that they want him to come back. They'd never go so far as to _expect_ it, as to tell him what to do, but he knows that after two years of evading, a year and a half of holing up in New York, he has to do something.

He hasn't, though, seen the McKeevers since the funeral. They'd tried seeing him in the hospital, but Kirsten had been the one to eventually tell them that while their kindness was appreciated, all it would do would upset Ryan. Ryan hadn't corrected her. He'd avoided them at the funeral, had turned and driven away if he'd seen them at the cemetery the few times he'd gone to see the graves. He knew it was rude, knew they probably thought him an awful son-in-law, but it had been overwhelming enough to deal with day-to-day life afterwards, and now he was expected to deal with in-laws grieving even harder than he was?

"It's good that Kirsten still hears from them," is how he responds, deflecting the sort-of question posed to him by Sandy. He's sure Sandy notices, but this is one that will be let go, for now.

"Claire usually calls her asking about you. Toby's stopped by my office a couple times. They're worried, kid. Haven't heard from you in so long."

"Haven't found the time to call," Ryan says, a little awkwardly—when did he become Seth?—and knowing that's a lame-ass excuse for two years of no contact. What else is he really doing besides sitting around out here? With his business on hold, there's not much for him _to_ do besides looking at those videos and going to the group.

He supposes that can change, though. There's Marissa to think of now, although he doesn't quite know what to think of her _as_. The thought of something romantic is still somewhat foreign. It's been two years, but if he can't even bring himself to sleep in a bed because it reminds him of Jenna, what would he be like in a relationship? Next to useless, probably. Maybe that will change; maybe not.

Being friends can't hurt, for now. He already made a move towards that when he didn't refuse her number and the offer of company. It can't hurt, and he resolves to try it. Being a recluse and a misanthrope won't get him anywhere.

* * *

The rest of the lunch passes fairly well. He finds that it's easier to talk to Sandy now, in person, than it has been on the phone. Once the subject of the McKeevers is dropped, it's easier to talk, period. Out of everyone, it's the easiest to talk to Sandy. He's wise enough to make his concern more subtle than Kirsten's—Ryan's difficulty in talking to her stems from not wanting to upset her any further. He also seems more at ease with Ryan than Seth, who, while he can be serious and has been, sometimes finds it difficult to be around _this_ Ryan, more somber than ever and unable to joke or really respond to his adoptive brother's attempts to cheer him.

That night, for the first time, he doesn't feel the urge to watch the videos. Some nights he doesn't, but the urge is still there. Most nights, he does watch them. But the lunch with Sandy, and his realization about wanting to have _something _with Marissa, have gotten him to the point where he's able to recognize that part of what's holding him back could be not letting Jenna and Cody go. Maybe it won't happen right away—hell, it's a near-guarantee that it won't—but moving towards it would be a start.

After the lunch, Sandy had dropped him off at the community center to get his car, and had told him that he'd be around for the rest of the week, that he'd stop by a few more times. Ryan had driven home, heated up the leftovers for dinner. For the first time in a while, he'd sketched, a vague idea for a construction project taking shape in his mind. Still not ready to immerse himself fully in it, to get back into his work, he'd put it away, but it had been a small start.

Sitting on the couch the next night, Wednesday, he can see the various Christmas decorations on other houses reflected in his window. The colored lights, the inflatable Santas, the lit-up reindeer—all of them are present. He has no doubt that were someone to put them all together, they would amount to the contents of a modest Christmas store. Mrs. Longenfeld alone could open one of her own, if she were so inclined. For a second, his eyes drift towards the door in the next floor's ceiling, the one that leads to the attic. He thinks of the decorations sitting there in the box labeled _Christmas_, thinks of getting them down… and then thinks of Cody's hands reaching for that red Christmas ball.

For a second, he closes his eyes, steadies himself. No. He can't do it just yet. But there is something he can do.

He picks up the phone and dials.

* * *

Wednesday nights are slow. She waitresses at a diner down the road, sometimes taking the morning shift, sometimes taking the night. Lately, she's been taking any hours they'll give her; work is as good as anything to take her mind off it.

Wednesday, though, was always the night she stayed in with Isobel, usually with a bad movie on whatever channel they could find, usually with a pint of ice cream. It had just been their ritual, and the thing Marissa had found worked the most to give her some stability. That had really been what Isobel needed, what Will had asked Marissa to try and give her, and thus she'd never had hours on Wednesdays.

Without Isobel, though, Marissa finds that Wednesday nights are suffocating. She thinks of cleaning out the bathroom, of at least moving Isobel's things or even throwing them away, since they won't be needed anymore. But no, she's found that she likes them there. It's a reminder, a reminder she knows is probably unhealthy, but one that she wants to keep around.

Cleaning out the bathroom is the only thing she's been able to think of for the night, and with that option gone, she finds herself unable to think of anything else. She's fairly tired, since she hasn't been sleeping much lately, and she's thinking of heading in early—very early, given that it's barely 9—when her cell phone rings.

It used to be that as a socially-conscious teen in Newport, her phone would always be ringing, and she'd usually pick it up without a second thought. Now, though, she screens, always checking the caller ID. Her dad, she picks up for, but he's usually the only one who cares to call these last few years. Kaitlin, sometimes. She hasn't heard from Summer in forever—no doubt because of her mother's efforts, like it had been for Ryan—and isn't even sure if the number she has for her friend is still in use, although she's been too afraid to pick up the phone and actually call her, anyway. She's mainly interested in making sure she doesn't pick up when her mother calls.

Surprised, she finds that the person calling her is Ryan. She'd figured that he'd take her up on her offer eventually, but she hadn't expected the call so soon—he'd just seemed so closed off. But she quickly answers, trying to dampen the eagerness in her tone, not wanting to scare him off. "Ryan?"

"Marissa. Hey. I was… wondering if that offer was still good. I've got some takeout menus here and a marathon of old horror movies."

"Seth-approved, I'm sure," Marissa says, with a little laugh, though it's still not easy for her to think of the people she left behind in Newport. "That sounds nice. I'll be over in about a half hour, okay?"

"Okay. I'll see you then."

She hangs up and then darts into her bedroom, changing out of the sweats she wears around the house and into a comfortable sweater and jeans. Despite her attraction to him, she doesn't want to pursue him romantically just yet. Her realization about who he must have lost has put her off that trail; she'll only make a move if he's ready for it. No, she's not trying to come on to him, but she wants to at least look presentable.

Ryan was attempting to make the same effort. After ordering the food—Chinese, which makes him think of numerous occasions where Kirsten's ordering had been overtaken by strings of requests from him, Seth, and Sandy—he goes into the bathroom, trying to shave without being too quick and slashing himself like some overeager thirteen-year-old. With no father around, and A.J. being as uninterested as it was possible to be in his girlfriend's sons' welfare, Ryan had had to learn to shave, years back, from Trey. Trey hadn't been so great at it himself at first, either, and Ryan had cut himself more times than he could count. He'd gotten better over the years, thankfully, but he tries to go slowly in order to avoid that ineptness.

The doorbell rings just as he gets on a shirt and jeans, and he opens it to find the delivery man. He pays for the food and takes it into the living room, setting it down on the coffee table and starting to remove the cartons from the bag as he hears a knock.

He opens the door and gives Marissa a smile—a small one, but probably the most he's managed in ages. "Just in time for the disembowlment."

"I hope you mean the movie; I don't think I could eat the food otherwise." Marissa returns his smile and follows him into the living room, carefully shutting the door behind her. "Nice place," she adds. It's fairly big, if bare; she'd noticed the lack of Christmas decorations outside, and sees that the inside isn't much of an improvement. No family photographs or anything.

"Thanks; I like it. Make yourself at home; I'll get some drinks… water all right?"

"Yeah, that's fine." She sits on the couch, noting from the extra pillow or two and the throw over the back that it seems to be slept on fairly often.

He returns with two glasses of water and plates; she puts some lo mein on hers and watches him select a dumpling. Taking a bite of the food, she admits, "I was honestly a little surprised you called. I was glad you didn't refuse the offer, don't get me wrong. Just didn't know how often I'd be hearing from you."

"I honestly didn't think I'd be calling." He figures that if she's being honest, he can be, too. "But, ah… Sandy came by yesterday; he's out here for the week. He's been trying for a while to get me to do something. Figured something like this could be a good start."

"Seems like it," she agrees, taking a bite of the lo mein and swallowing before adding, "and I'm glad you picked me to start with."

He hesitates for a minute, wondering how to respond. He's not made of stone—it's been two years since he's been with a woman, and he can't deny that the attraction he used to feel for Marissa is beginning to stir. Marissa's not coming on to him; that much he knows. She's grieving, too, though neither of them have asked who for. She's not making that move just yet, and neither is he.

But any attraction aside, any lingering doubts about telling her the truth aside, he's able to realize that he's glad, too. A friend is what he needs. He's about to keep it to himself, to be the old Ryan and even the Ryan of the past two years, but he reminds himself of the effort he's making. And he smiles, even more genuinely than before, and says, "Yeah. So am I."


	4. That's Me Trying

**A/N: Hi, all! Here's Chapter 4, with the promise that the next two chapters and others after that should come at a more regular pace, since I'm getting close to my winter break. This is about half of what you've all been waiting for, the reveal of who exactly Isobel was and what she meant to Marissa. Ryan's reveal will be coming in the next chapter. I hope you all enjoy the progression of their relationship here, and as always, please review!**

**"That's Me Trying" is a song by William Shatner.**

* * *

IV.

That's Me Trying

_Monday, December 7__th_

The week passes surprisingly quickly now that he has someone to really share it with. He hasn't realized how nice it is to have someone who gets it. The isolation, the visits from neighbors, the constant phone calls.

Even if Marissa can commiserate with him on such things as those, she's almost as determined as Sandy and Mrs. Longenfeld to get out and do other things. He's surprised she's as gung ho as she is, considering her loss seems to be, from what he's gathered, more recent than his, but she seems to be slipping back slightly into the party-planning personality he'd seen a bit of in Newport.

"I can't believe you don't even have a tree," she says as she wanders the house before their support group that Monday evening. He'd offered to drive her this time, to give Janet a break, and because he's found that he likes having her around to talk to. She came over one other night after the movie marathon, and they'd talked on the phone for most of the other nights.

He comes down the stairs pulling on his jacket, stopping for a second as it causes a dull pang in his bad shoulder. It's starting to snow again, and the damp in the air sometimes makes it act up. He rolls it for a second after getting his arm in the sleeve, shaking off the pain almost imperceptibly and answering Marissa as he does. "I don't know, just never occurred to me to get one."

"Well, we'll have to change that. At the very least, your neighbors will stop staring." She gives him a smile and hands him the scarf he keeps hanging on a peg—a gift from Kirsten, sent out shortly after he'd moved to New York. "I used to hate Christmas. Started liking it once I came up here. Something about the snow and the lights… I don't know, it's pretty."

"Never really liked it, myself," Ryan admits as they go out to the car and get in. "Didn't really have any good ones in Chino. There were some good times with the Cohens, though. Seth always insisted on Chrismukkah."

"I remember hearing about it in elementary school," Marissa laughs. "I think everyone in Newport does. He was a bit terrifying when it came to holiday cheer, actually."

"Tell me about it."

They get to the community center a little later than they usually would, given that the snow beginning to fall means ice on the roads. Not much, but enough to make him slow down. He was never an incautious driver, but now he pays far more attention than he used to.

He parks and they get out, Ryan holding Marissa's arm as a courtesy so she won't slip on the iced over pavement. "How did you get used to this?" he asks, with a laugh. "Felt like I was in the Arctic the first few times it snowed when I came up here."

"Trust me, same here. My neighbor still reminds me of when it got to be spring and at least a bit warmer, and my first words to her were apparently, _You mean it's not ALWAYS like that? Finally!_"

They walk into the building and hang up their coats, and he lets go of her arm to take off his. She shakes some snow out of her hair, pulling it up into a ponytail as they walk into the room and sit beside each other in the circle.

She's come to recognize that, at least for some people, the group does seem to be worth it. Talking seems to help them, and she can't help but feel that she might want to start talking to Ryan. She's not yet comfortable with telling a whole group of strangers, but she feels more comfortable with Ryan than she's felt with anyone in the last six months, even Janet. She's only been to three sessions of the group, but she's noticed that some people seem to be adjusting.

There's Jack, who lost his wife to cancer; Niles and Lucy, whose son had a heart defect; Beth, whose mother died of an aneurysm. By all accounts, none of them have been coming as long as Ryan, but they seem to be coping pretty well. They manage to smile and laugh and have it look real. She's getting to that point herself, but only around Ryan, only around someone who really _gets_ it. It's taking an effort with everyone else.

Jeff comes in from the next room and takes his seat at the head of the circle. "Evening, everyone. Good weekend?"

There's a few nods and murmurs of assent. Jeff steeples his fingers and leans his elbows on his knees. "Anyone want to open the floor?"

Jude, a man not much older than her and Ryan, speaks up after a minute or two. He'd lost his girlfriend over the summer; they'd been sharing an apartment. "I never realized until she was gone how much my days revolved around her, you know? We used to get up early and have breakfast together, even if I didn't have to go to work until a few hours after she did. I'd wait up usually if she was going to be home late. There's just this routine I got into without realizing it, you know? It's tough to get out of it now that she's gone."

Marissa finds herself nodding in agreement, thinking of the empty Wednesdays, when she wants to do something and yet finds that she can't. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees that Ryan notices her expression. He reaches over and rests his hand on her leg, gently, almost tentatively. She turns her head for a second and meets his eyes, quirking her lips upward the tiniest bit and resting her hand on his for a second or two, a thanks. He nods slightly, as if to say, _you're welcome_.

She hasn't spoken yet, has followed Ryan's lead. But this time, she does, saying after a second, "I've been having that problem, too. It's been weird, realizing how much I looked forward to that one day. And now that she's not here, I just found myself needing something to _do_ with it, you know? I just couldn't sit around anymore." She says all of this in a slight rush, breathing in slowly and then adding, "I think I've figured out a solution, though."

They'd talked, that Wednesday night, about the situation. They'd agreed that they both wanted to see more of each other, and the phone calls and such had been the start of that. She'd hesitantly suggested maybe making it a standing thing—Wednesday nights at one of their places. She'd wondered if it was too much of a suggestion, if he'd back away from the implications.

But no, he'd seemed to be okay with it, had agreed to the suggestion without much hesitation. And from all the little touches, the smiles, the laughter… she can't deny that she's beginning to wonder just how far things can go.

Ryan sits there for a second after her admission, making sure she's not looking over at him before he dares to glance at her, slightly fascinated by the blush that had started to color her cheeks after she'd mentioned the solution. There's no question that she means him; they'd established that last Wednesday. He'd agreed to her suggestion without questions, knowing he needs to keep making his effort. Maybe he's not quite ready to go back to the OC yet, not quite ready to face the McKeevers, but he can work at rebuilding a friendship—a romance?—that never had enough of a chance to get off the ground.

That blush makes him wonder. He's definitely attracted to her. He can allow himself to admit that, finally, not just entertain the thought in the back of his mind. And he's gotten inklings that she's attracted to him, but none so clear as the blush, as the way she'd responded to his hand on her leg. The indications are all there—she definitely feels the same attraction he does.

There's still the matter of telling her about Jenna and Cody, however. He still finds himself balking on that one, wondering which of them will make the first move. He wonders what Sandy will say—he's still staying over at that hotel, and Ryan's going to have to see him at least once more and confront the issue of that plane ticket. That aside, Sandy's advice would probably be really helpful right about now.

He realizes his hand is still resting on Marissa's leg, that she's made no effort to remove it. He realizes he can't focus on Jeff and the other group members, for the first time since he's started coming here. He normally listens, internalizes the information, even sometimes trying to use the strategies others suggest to deal with things, but no, tonight he finds himself slightly overwhelmed by the notion that he might be falling—again—for Marissa Cooper.

They're older now, hopefully a little wiser. There can't be as much drama as there was when they were teenagers. There's no who's-sleeping-with-who, no divorces or financial dramas or any of that. This town is small, snowy, quiet, nothing like Newport. It could be the perfect place to really begin working things out, couldn't it?

The session passes more quickly than usual when his mind isn't on it, and as Marissa gets up and goes to get her coat, Jeff comes up to him and detains him for a word. "Noticed you two seem to be getting along. Making any progress?"

"Yeah," Ryan says, his voice surprisingly steady considering how much information he's trying to straighten out in his head right now. "I think so."

He follows Marissa out after getting his own coat, watching as she descends the stairs just ahead of him. As she reaches the bottom, however, her right foot hits a small patch of ice and she slips, managing to grab the railing as she falls, but still landing hard on her ankle.

She sucks in a pained breath as Ryan rushes as carefully as he can down the stairs, crouching by her side. "You all right?"

"Sort of," she winces, starting to pull herself up but then hesitating, lowering herself back down very carefully. "I think it might be sprained."

"Looks like it," he agrees, remembering briefly when it happened to a friend of his at Berkeley. "Here." He helps her up, putting his arm around her shoulders and letting her lean into him. "I have some first aid things back at the house; you should stay off your feet for a few hours."

She can't protest, considering, and agrees, walking with his help to the car. Ryan instructs her to prop her leg against the dashboard, and since that seems to ease the pain just a little bit, she keeps it there and tries not to think of how awkward this must look.

He gets them to the house fairly quickly—it looks like deicing was done on the roads, if not the sidewalks—and once they're inside, he takes a look at the living room and then up the stairs. "Bed's probably more comfortable; it's bigger… might have to carry you up, though."

At this point, she's past protesting. It doesn't hurt all that badly, but the thought of going up the stairs in what would probably amount to undignified hopping is enough to make her swallow her pride and agree. And for the third time in her life but the first one she can remember, one arm is behind her shoulders and the other is under her knees, carrying her up the stairs and into the bedroom, laying her down and propping her ankle on a pillow, promising to be back in a second with the ice and a bandage.

And she lies there for a second, closing her eyes and trying to breathe and trying to ignore the heat rushing through every inch of her body as she replays the last thirty seconds in her head, thirty glorious seconds of his strong arms on her body. The pain is nearly gone now, endorphins seemingly replacing it with a pleasant if tingling numbness as she tries to memorize every sensation, everything that lingers in her mind about the first time she was truly conscious of Ryan Atwood's touch.

She makes the decision just about then and there. If she can tell anyone, she can tell him. She _should_ him. The point of the support group is to help them take steps, and she can take the first one, take it with him.

She opens her eyes again as she hears him coming up the stairs, carrying an ice pack and a bandage in his hands. He sits down on the bed cross-legged and begins to work off her shoe and sock for her, apologizing for the pain. When he takes her foot in his hands and begins wrapping, starting at her toes, she inhales and then lets it out, telling herself to go for it. "Ryan?"

"I'm not hurting you, am I?"

"No, it's not that. It's… there's… I just want to tell you something. About why I go to the group. If you're okay with hearing it. You don't have to say anything about yours; I just… wanted to say something. You're the only one I know who really understands, and…"

He nods, surprised, but honestly wanting to know, wondering where this will take them. "I'd like to hear it," he says, sincerely, holding her gaze for a minute before shifting his gaze back to her foot, not wanting to keep looking if it makes her uncomfortable.

She closes her eyes, taking a bit of the comforter in her fist and kneading it as she begins to talk, focusing on the feeling of his hands ably wrapping the bandage down her foot and around her ankle. "My dad has a brother. Younger. His name's Will. He lives out in Florida, so we never saw him that often. He'd come out for holidays every once in a while, but I never really saw him that much after the recovery center and then the new school… I just didn't see much of my family, period.

"Anyway, I moved out here five years ago and I never really gave him a second thought until he called me up last year. He got married to my aunt Julia when I was ten, and when I was twelve they had my cousin. Isobel. With the age difference, and not really seeing them too much, I didn't know her very well. But he called me and asked me if I'd be willing to have her stay with me, go to a new school around here.

"She was having a lot of problems. She had this friend, Mickey, they'd grown up together and he'd always been around for her, but he moved away, and she started hanging around with a rough crowd, cutting class, getting drunk. Her doctor put her on antidepressants. They wanted to know if I could just… be someone who could relate to her, maybe get her back on track. I didn't really know if I could do it, but my dad really wanted me, and I wanted to get to know her better. So I agreed."

Ryan knows where this is going—there's only one direction it can go—but he still knows she's making the effort to tell him, to not hold it back, and to him, that's pretty admirable. He thinks of telling her tonight, but decides to hold off. Maybe it's better not to distract her with his emotions while she's still trying to work through hers, and he wants to talk with Sandy first, to get some advice before really moving this forward.

Having finished wrapping her ankle, he puts her foot back onto the ice pack and pillow, before lying down next to her, watching her as she speaks, her eyes still closed.

"Sixteen. I had the same kinds of issues when I was her age; I mean… you remember that, at least. They thought I was the right person to come to; I can't say I blame them. They brought her out here last September, right before the school year started.

"She wasn't sure of me at first. We'd only met a few times, and she looked at me like I was this babysitter. Kept trying to give me the slip, but I'd always find her out. Will told me to give her some kind of routine, so I did. Wednesday nights, we'd sit around with ice cream and a movie. Sometimes she'd talk to me, sometimes she wouldn't, but I think she liked it. She seemed like she was doing better, anyway.

"She started making friends here. More than I would've thought. They all seemed like they were good for her, too. No drugs, no drinking. She really seemed like she was _happy_. But she kept telling me every once in a while that she still felt like the odd one out, like she didn't really fit in. There were a couple parties where she didn't get invited, some of the girls she was hanging out with got boyfriends and became too busy for her, and she started slipping again. I tried to tell her it didn't matter, but she wasn't hearing it. She stopped talking to a lot of her friends, and then she just stopped talking to me."

She takes a shaky breath, willing herself not to cry. She's thought, over the past few months, that she's cried all the tears she could, but it turns out that maybe she hasn't. She breathes in again and then out, shutting her eyes tighter against the tears that were threatening to come. "It was June, just about the end of the school year. I had to work one night. I usually didn't take night shifts; I liked to be around for her after school, but one of the other waitresses called in sick and there was no one but me. I was gone for maybe six hours. Got back around two in the morning, checked her bedroom to make sure she was asleep. And I don't… I don't know where she'd gotten it, because I didn't keep any in the house, but she had a bottle of vodka with her, and when I checked her medication in the bathroom nearly all of it was gone. She'd… they told me she must've overdosed an hour or two after I left."

He reaches over, putting a hand on her shoulder, sensing her trying to collect herself. "There wasn't much else you could have done… I'm sure you tried as hard as you could to be there for her."

"Not hard enough, apparently." She opens her eyes and hopes they don't seem too wet. "Will and Julia haven't spoken to me since I called. They blame me for it, I know that much from Julia screaming at me the night it happened… they took her body back to Florida. I didn't go to the funeral; they didn't want me there… eventually, Janet came to me and told me about the support group," she says, lamely switching topics. "And now I'm glad she did."

They lay there in silence, facing each other, his hand still on her shoulder until he skims it down along her arm and grabs her hand, holding it. Trying to total the number of times that he's touched her tonight is making her dizzy, making her think things she probably shouldn't be thinking.

"I'm glad you told me," he says, before pausing and adding, "I'm glad you trusted me enough to tell me."

"Yeah," she whispers, her voice raw from talking and held-in tears, her ankle throbbing slightly from the lingering pain. Even with all that, his hand in hers is making all the pain, physical and emotional, worth it.

He gives her hand a squeeze before gently letting it go, and she resists the urge to grab it again, to take hold of that safety net she's becoming so used to. His next words are ones she should expect, given the type of person he is, but she's still surprised by them. "Stay the night. Makes more sense; you're already settled here, and it'll give your ankle a break. I can sleep on the couch."

"I'll stay. As long as… as long as you stay here with me," she tries, tentatively. Testing the waters. It seems to be the essence of their relationship now. She doesn't feel like sleeping alone, not after she finally told someone the whole story, not after she's realized that she truly hates being alone.

And he holds her gaze for a long minute or two, before nodding and saying quietly, "Okay."


	5. Secrets

**A/N: Okay, so college was apparently determined to take my soul and crush it under the weight of a million papers. With that said, this chapter is delayed, and the start of the planned Christmas chapter(s), Chapter 7, probably won't be up until after Christmas, which was my initial plan. At this point, getting them up in winter will be enough of a victory for me, probably! I hope to keep the chapters going regularly now, even if the dates in-fic don't match up to the dates IRL.**

**With that said, here's the semi-long-awaited Ryan confession, and (to me) the most emotional in the fic thus far; I hope you guys feel that way, too. If not, well, there's the review button! Enjoy (as much as you can, with this subject matter, anyway) and let me know your thoughts. Any errors in medical reasoning herein are my own. Happy early holidays!**

**"Secrets" is a song by OneRepublic.  
**

* * *

V.

Secrets

_Tuesday through Thursday, December 8__th__ through 10__th_

The first thing he's aware of upon getting up is that he isn't alone. For once, there's warmth, a presence on the other side of the bed that there hasn't been in two years. His memory is still a fog and for a second he thinks that it's Jenna there.

As he comes closer to full consciousness, he realizes that one of his arms has wrapped around whoever's there, keeping her close. That's what makes him wake up fully, as he realizes that he's lying with Marissa, his body pressed up against hers, one arm wrapped around her. He flashes briefly back to Tijuana, as much as he tries to block that trip out of his mind, tries to block out the feeling of holding her deathly cold body in his arms as he carried her out of that alley. He remembers lying in that bed with her, as close as he ever got to her, unable to have her.

With her this close, it's impossible to avoid taking in her scent, the sweet smell of her hair, the feeling of her skin against his hands. He finds that he has to fight very, very hard to resist the urge to touch her elsewhere, to run his hands along her body, to explore the way they never had twelve years ago.

He feels her breathe in and shift her weight, and he knows from the change in her breathing that she's awake. She laughs a little as she notices their position, as he moves his arm from over her body and rests it back by his side, though he still remains spooned against her. "Familiar territory," she murmurs, rolling onto her other side so that she's facing him, smiling.

"Yeah," he says, returning her smile, though he hopes she can't tell how much her proximity is getting to him. "Again, sorry…"

"Not a problem," she says softly, finally sitting up and reaching out to rest her fingers lightly on her ankle.

"Any better?"

"Little bit. Don't think I can walk on it just yet, but it doesn't hurt as much."

"That's good. Don't overdo it. If you want, there's an extra toothbrush in the bathroom cabinet. You can wash up; I can get us some breakfast or something…"

"That'd be nice, actually," she says, after a few seconds. "I'd like that. It might take a while to shower with this, though…" She motions to the ankle.

"That's fine; take your time."

He points her to the bathroom and gets out of bed himself. Once she's in the bathroom, he changes into another pair of jeans and a clean t-shirt, trying to ignore the still-present ache in his shoulder. He considers starting up the painkillers again, but it makes him think too much of the immediate aftermath, of the numb days in the Cohens' pool house. He can't go back to that again.

It takes him all of thirty seconds after dressing to realize that he's not exactly well-stocked with breakfast food. One of them has ordered takeout all the times they've gotten together, and for some reason he doesn't want Marissa to know that he's doing badly enough to not really care whether or not he eats.

He checks the clock; there's not enough time to go out and come back to get the food himself. He grabs his phone, dialing Sandy's number. Sandy picks up on the second ring.

"Hey, kid. Morning."

"Morning. Listen, could you do me a favor?"

And in less than fifteen minutes, Sandy's over his place with a bag of bagels from the store across the street from the hotel, following Ryan from the front hall to the kitchen. "Thanks for this," Ryan says over his shoulder as he gets orange juice from the fridge, as Sandy sets the bag on the counter and unpacks the bagels and cream cheese.

"No problem." Sandy looks up at the ceiling briefly, listening to see if the water's still running, and looks back to Ryan. "I'm in town until Thursday. If you need anything, come by tonight or tomorrow."

Ryan nods. "I can see you to the airport on Thursday?" he offers.

"Speaking of the airport—"

He knows Sandy's about to mention the plane ticket, but Marissa must want to pay him back for all the times he saved her, because she walks in at just that moment—or, rather, hops in, trying not to put weight on her ankle. Her hair is wet around her shoulders, a towel draped over them, and seeing it makes Ryan flash back to that night by the pool.

"_You've got goosebumps."_

"_I know! Towel."_

"_Want a sweatshirt?"_

"_Can I borrow one of your tank tops so I can look as cool as you?"_

"Morning," she says, surprised, to Sandy, smiling nicely at the man she'd lived next door to in her childhood. "Ryan mentioned you were out here; I didn't know if I'd get a chance to see you."

"Figured I'd stop by," he says, knowing Ryan doesn't want him to mention needing him to bring the bagels. He begins to cut one of them open, opening the cream cheese container once he has the bagel sliced. "Marissa, I'm going to show you how to _schmear_," he announces, glancing up at Ryan, who gives him a grateful look. No questions about the past, about the years since he'd seen her last—he can count on Sandy not to pry. He's learned that much, at least, from dealing with Ryan these past few years.

They sit around for an hour or so with bagels and conversation, and Ryan finds that the normalcy of it all puts him at ease again, calming his extraordinarily conflicted feelings about the Marissa situation. He needs that talk with Sandy; he's decided that much.

Marissa trusted him enough to tell him her story, and he knows he can trust her. It's getting himself to take that leap that's the tough part.

Marissa checks her watch and finishes the last of the bagel, looking to Ryan. "I have to get to work in a few hours… I should be getting home. I can call Janet for a ride if you don't—"

"I can drive you; it's fine." He grabs his keys from the counter. "You sure you should be working, with your ankle hurt?"

She waves a hand. "I'll give it a shot. My boss will understand, if not." She gives Sandy a hug good-bye and then goes into the hall closet to get her coat. Ryan looks at Sandy, silently asking him to stick around until he gets back, and Sandy gives him a nod of acknowledgement. That done, Ryan heads out after Marissa, helping her into the car.

They drive in silence for the most part, until they're about halfway to her house, when Marissa breaks the silence. "Ryan, if I freaked you out last night… said too much…?"

He stares at the road for a second before he looks over at her briefly, his hands tightening a little on the steering wheel as he does so. "No. Like I said last night… I'm just glad you trusted me."

He hopes she has no idea that his silence this morning has been for an entirely different reason. He needs to work this out on his own before making any type of move towards a relationship, and if he can't bring himself to do it, he doesn't want her to give her false hope. So he offers her a hint of a smile to back up his words, and she seems to accept that, falling silent again. She kisses his cheek and says a soft thanks as they reach her house, and he makes sure she gets into the house before he heads back to his place.

Sandy has moved to the living room, watching _Judge Judy_ and laughing at it, as usual. The nostalgia hits Ryan and for a second he feels grateful that this time that nostalgic feeling isn't about Jenna and Cody. He couldn't handle that today.

He joins Sandy on the couch, and his silence, a different kind than normal, is noticed by Sandy, who turns off the TV. It takes him a few minutes to make the words come out the way he wants them to.

"I might have feelings for Marissa."

Sandy nods, both in acknowledgment and for him to continue, and Ryan takes a breath before adding, "It could become something. She feels the same way. But I guess I'm not sure if… if I want it to. If I'm ready for that."

It takes Sandy a bit to mull this over before he speaks. He holds up a hand as he begins, "I can't tell you what to do. No one can; no one should. What I can tell you is… it's been two years, Ryan. I know you've been punishing yourself—torturing yourself, really."

Ryan starts to say something, but stops, thinks of the isolation, thinks of the alcohol, thinks of the videos. It's true.

"It's been two years. And you know she wouldn't want this for you." Sandy looks him in the eye at that one. "Just like the rest of us don't. It's up to you, kid. But in the end, she'd want you to have whatever would make you happy."

He thinks this over, thinks of Jenna, thinks of the nights in their college days, their honeymoon, the pregnancy and after, when they'd laid awake talking about the what-ifs, the could-bes. They'd talked about who would get Cody if something were to happen to them. What they hadn't talked about was what would happen if one of them had survived the other. They'd been young; it wasn't a thought that normally occurred to a couple not long married, not even long out of college. It hadn't hit him that they'd never talked about it until he'd been lying in a hospital bed holding the wedding and engagement rings they'd given him from Jenna's personal effects, staring at them and wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now.

Sandy gives him quiet for a while as he thinks this over, sits there with him until he finally nods and looks back to him, a signal of being ready. Sandy reaches into the inside pocket of his suit and pulls out the envelope, handing it to Ryan.

"The flight's Christmas Eve morning. One of us can get you at the airport. Just let us know if you're coming. You don't have to, but we'd all like it if you did… we can talk to the McKeevers, if that's a problem…"

He makes the promise to think it over. To try.

He'd promised himself he'd try.

And with that in mind, he gets in the car the next night and drives.

* * *

She hobbles to the door, cursing every second that patch of ice on the sidewalk. It doesn't hurt that much now that it's been two days, but it's a bitch to have to hop everywhere, not to mention really annoying. She'd finally called in sick to work yesterday, and her boss had told her to give it a week or so before coming back in.

She'd debated calling Ryan the night before, but he'd seemed a little off in the car, despite the reassurance and the smile. She'd reached for the phone about a hundred times, but pulled her hand back each and every one. _Let him be._

So it's with a fair amount of surprise that she opens the door and finds him on the other side, slightly covered in the fluffy snow that's now dusting the ground outside. "Ryan," she says, wondering what he's doing out here this late. It's nearly nine, so it's not too bad, but it's still snowing—light as it is, there's always the prospect of it possibly getting worse, especially around here. "What are you—?"

He takes a breath and steels himself, brushing the snow from his coat before finally saying, "I... wanted to talk. Can I…?"

He motions to the inside of the house and she steps back, letting him in. He hangs up his coat and then follows her to the living room, where they sit on her couch. They sit there in silence for one minute, two, until he faces her and holds her gaze.

"Look, I don't… talk a lot, and I don't really trust people. The Cohens, yeah, but besides that… I trust you. And I want to make this work, but to do that… you told me your story. I want to tell you mine."

She nods almost imperceptibly, not wanting to interrupt him in case it causes him to lose his nerve. She wonders what he meant by _"this,"_ if he's hinting at a relationship, but in case he's not, she doesn't dwell on that. Instead, she watches as he breaks her gaze—more comfortable for him that way—and begins to talk.

"It was raining," is what he starts off with. "Junior year—you were gone then—there was this awful rainstorm. I don't know if it reached you. It was the worst I'd seen since then. We were driving—_I_ was driving.

"I was married," he says, and at this, she has to steel herself for what she knows is coming. She'd guessed, she'd figured out on her own the probable reason for his presence in the group, but hearing it confirmed is another thing entirely. "Jenna. I met her at Berkeley. We got married just after we graduated… had Cody a year later. He was three when it happened."

"Cody?" Marissa asks softly, thought she knows she doesn't have to, knows now how exactly this is going to end. Her voice wavers on the word, as she realizes that his loss is more painful than she could have imagined. She'd lost Isobel, but a wife and a child? _Together?_

He nods, reaching for his wallet and opening it, passing it to her. She takes it almost feeling like it'll burn her, looking at the picture he keeps in one of the plastic pockets. It's him and a redheaded woman, pretty and smiling, his arm around her. Her arms are around a little boy, about a year old from the looks of it, with blond hair like his father's and a smile like his mother's. She keeps the wallet in her hand, but her eyes remain on Ryan as he continues.

"It was raining, a few days before Christmas. Torrential downpour. It was her dad's birthday party—his actual birthday had been a few days before—and we were driving to her parents' house. It was hard to see the road, the rain was so bad. Someone in the other lane lost control for two seconds, weaved into our lane. I tried to swerve, but the road was too wet and I ended up skidding into the railing. We flipped down an embankment."

His voice is distant now, far off, and she doesn't think he's even comprehending what he's telling her anymore. She reaches out and puts her hand on his leg, just as he did for her in the support group, and that seems to bring him back somewhat. He puts his hand over hers, squeezing a little, and finally continues.

"The driver of the other car was fine; he managed to stop somewhere along the side of the road and call 911. The car was completely wrecked. Had to cut the doors off. I was out for three days. Had a concussion on top of separating my shoulder. Other than that, I was fine. I was… lucky. At least that's what they told me." He takes a breath before finally saying the words she'd known were coming. "Jenna and Cody died on impact."

"_What are we supposed to tell him?" Kirsten's voice, breaking through the fog, the throbbing pain behind his eyes. His eyes—can't open those yet. Pain. Pain behind his eyes, yes, but also in his shoulder. Duller there, though he can tell it's going to be a bitch later on. Painkillers?_

_It takes a second for it to sink in that his whole body is aching, aching from lying still, aching from bruises he knows are probably there. Rain, he remembers rain, remembers glass, screaming, crying—_

_That's what forces him up, makes him open his eyes only to shut them again against the blindingly white room, the white making him blind just as the heart monitor's suddenly chaotic beeping makes him deaf. In a minute, everything calms down as he feels one hand in his, another on his uninjured shoulder—Kirsten on one side, Sandy on the other, he recognizes as he finally opens his eyes again without getting the feeling that the room is spinning._

_It's Kirsten's face that gets him to realize something is wrong, very wrong, as he recalls her words from just a minute or two before, as she strokes some sweat-dampened hair back from his face and gives his hand a tiny squeeze. Hospital. He can register that now, knows from the white and the antiseptic smell and the monitors and the bed that that's where he is. Hospital. Kirsten and Sandy. Glass, screaming, crying, and… no Jenna. No Cody._

"_Where…?" he starts to ask, but can't manage; his throat is dry, hasn't had proper water for a few days at least. Sandy gets a cup and pours him some from the pitcher on the nightstand, holding it to his lips and helping him drink. Normally, he'd resent this, not want to be treated like a child, but he can't move now, can't think, can't breathe, and still no answer until—_

_Kirsten's hand again, softly stroking hair away from his aching head, her voice the one that tells him quietly, brokenly, that there's been an accident. "Jenna and Cody, they… oh, Ryan, I'm so… sorry, they…"_

_And she can't get the words out and neither can he, because he's screaming, feverish, delirious, and it takes Sandy and a male orderly holding him down before a doctor grabs the hand Kirsten had held and jabs it with a needle, and his eyes close and there's nothing but darkness, the type of darkness he'll long for weeks later, when the pain he feels is of an entirely different sort, the type no painkiller can do anything for._

His breathing is slightly uneven as he sits there, probably remembering, and she squeezes his hand to bring him back. He has to shake himself off a little, trying to put himself back in the here and now, to remember that it's not that day, that it never will be that day again, God willing.

"I stayed in Newport for a few weeks afterward. A month or two, tops. After the funerals, I just… couldn't go back home. It was… suffocating, being there, knowing they wouldn't be, not anymore. The McKeevers packed up their things. Gave me a few boxes of things they thought I'd want, told me I could always look through the ones they had if I couldn't find anything. Never have. Eventually I wanted a change. Went back to the house, stayed there for ten months or so. Didn't work, so I moved out here a year ago. Haven't gone back since."

He breathes normally for the first time since starting the story, finally looks her in the eye again. "I guess what I'm trying to say is… is that I do have feelings for you. I do, and I want to try and have something with you… if you're ready. I am. Or at least, I think I am. It's been two years and I know I shouldn't… shouldn't keep doing what I have been. I'd like for us to be something, or at least for us to try…"

She silences him by gently putting her fingers against his lips, not kissing him, but the intimacy of it startles them both and she quickly withdraws her hand, offering him a slightly shaky smile. "I'd like to," she says quietly. "As long as you're sure."

He takes the wallet she hands back to him, giving a brief glance to the picture inside of it, the frozen image from a life he'd lost and once would have done anything to regain. For the first time in two years, that feeling is starting to leave him. The loneliness doesn't feel as crushing; the pain doesn't feel so overwhelming. He still misses them, knows he always will, but trying something like this doesn't feel like an insult to their memories. He reminds himself of Sandy's words—that Jenna would have wanted this for him.

"I'm sure," is what he tells her, and he actually feels like he means it.

* * *

He gets Sandy bright and early the next morning, at maybe six AM, when the flight is at nine. They drive to the airport and he walks into the lobby with Sandy, who sets down his suitcase and reaches into his jacket for his ticket and boarding pass.

"Sure you're all right out here? I can stay a few more days if you need," he offers, and Ryan takes some comfort in the familiarity of that. Same old Sandy.

"No, I'm… doing all right." For the first time, he's not lying. He's come to realize how tiring that was. "I might come out for Christmas after all."

At this, Sandy raises an eyebrow, surprised but definitely happy with the news. "With someone?" he asks, a casual inquiry, and Ryan hesitates to answer, before giving a noncommittal "maybe." It is what it is, after all. He's still not sure how he and Marissa will function in a relationship, but damned if he won't try, and he's going to give it at least a few days before he springs Chrismukkah on Marissa.

Sandy checks the time and then picks up his bag again, nodding back to the terminal. "I have to head out, kid, but you know the number if you need to call. I'll hopefully see you in a few weeks, all right?"

Ryan nods, and gives in to the quick hug from Sandy before they break apart and his adoptive father walks away, leaving Ryan staring after the man who, two nights before, had given him the advice that will hopefully determine the next however many months.

And he heads back to his car and gets inside, driving off in the direction of his house, for once not sad over the prospect of spending the day alone. He's not alone, not really.

Not anymore.


	6. Consider This

**A/N: This chapter took longer than I expected to write and a good chunk of it was written at one o'clock in the morning, so reader beware! As always, thank you all so much for reviewing, and I always look forward to hearing from you all. Have at it, and (belated) happy New Year!**

**"Consider This" is a song by Anna Nalick.  
**

* * *

VI.

Consider This

_Wednesday, December 16__th__ through Monday, December 21__st_

He's still thrown slightly by how much he'd seemingly forgotten about the way it feels to really be with someone. They haven't even done much of anything yet—no kissing, no sex, no thought yet of those three particular words—but it's the littlest things that spark his memories and make him feel like he'd be willing to do more, given enough time.

He's still getting used to the little smile she gives him when they accidentally catch each other's gaze when trying to watch the other unobserved, to the softness of her skin, to the way her hand fits in his so nicely. It's all a rush—all far more than he imagined.

He called her over to his place tonight to make sure that she wasn't sitting alone on a Wednesday. She'd mentioned, when she told him about Isobel, that Wednesdays had been their night. He knew how hard it was to be faced with a routine broken by loss, knew how he felt every time Jenna and Cody's birthdays came around. It didn't do any good to sit around and think about it; he would know.

They're sitting together on the couch, not watching television this time—just enjoying the quiet and each other, simpler than he'd imagined. Her head rests on his good shoulder, and he's wrapped his arms around her, his hands resting clasped at her hip. Her shirt has ridden up a bit, so his hands are resting on bare skin, which he occasionally traces with his fingers, still getting used to her warmth in his arms.

She tilts her head slightly to look at him, reaching one of her hands out and placing it over his. "Tell me about them," she says softly. "If you're okay with that, I mean…"

They'd talked a bit about Isobel earlier, when Marissa had mentioned a few of the good times they'd had on nights like this. It had helped her to remember, and she wondered if it would be the same for Ryan. He'd mentioned them, shown her the picture, but she didn't really _know_ anything.

He pulls her the smallest bit closer, still needing that warmth, the comfort he's barely realized he associates with her by now. He tries to think back to the memories gone somewhat hazy in his mind, the ones not sharpened by countless viewings of those videos or by endless nightmares. It's the earliest days that are the hardest to recall.

"Freshman year, I had to take this philosophy course. It was part of the requirements for a degree in architecture. Jenna was sitting in front of me. She was… different from most of the other kids in there. A lot of them were just sleeping through it to get on with the rest of their day. Jenna, she loved it. She could talk Plato and Aristotle and anyone else with our professor and he'd actually listen. It was pretty incredible.

"Anyway, right before our midterm, I was studying in the library. Jenna came tearing through the door and just sat down at my table. Completely desperate. Her bag had disappeared from her dorm and she didn't have any of her notes. She told me she needed to study with someone; I told her she really didn't have to, since she was miles ahead of everyone else, but she insisted. Of course, she aced the midterm, and I didn't do badly, either; it probably helped me more than it helped her. She asked me to dinner to make up for monopolizing my time, and after a few more dates, we started going out for real."

He plays with her hair, twirling it gently around his fingers for a second or two before wrapping his arm back around her. "By the time we graduated, we'd been going out for four years, and we figured there wasn't much point in waiting to get married. We'd gotten a place of our own; we were already at that point. The wedding wasn't anything huge, but it was enough for us. We found out she was pregnant a few months later."

He smiles faintly at the memory, and she gently nuzzles his cheek with her nose. He gives her a soft squeeze and continues softly, "It was… amazing. I mean, exhausting, yeah, and sometimes it was a bit of a stretch to make ends meet, but I wouldn't have traded a second. Cody was just… everyone always told us he was the happiest kid they'd seen. And I'm sure they say that to everyone, but he was. Always smiling, always laughing, once he learned how. He loved it whenever we decorated for Christmas."

The mention of Christmas is what makes him pause, burying his nose in her hair. She runs her fingers lightly along his arm and murmurs, "Maybe we could get you a small tree or something. At least a fake one. I still say you can't be a Grinch forever," she says softly, her tone teasing, so that he'll know she won't take offense if it's still hard for him.

He reaches out to grab one of her hands in his, pulling it to his lips and kissing it softly. She wonders for a second or two what those lips would feel like on hers, but pushes that back—she's not going to push him towards anything he's not ready for, and she has to admit that just moving slowly is _nice_. They didn't get a chance to really _know_ each other in Newport, so doing it now is comforting, makes it feel more real.

"Not forever," he agrees softly, feeling her settle more comfortably in his arms. "I'd say you're right."

* * *

Two days later, with a week left until Christmas, Marissa's hand in his is what compels him down the aisle of the department store and into the forest of artificial trees. The store is somewhat crowded, but Marissa, he has learned, is a veteran shopper and can manage crowds with the best of them.

"We're not going for any of this silver fiber optic stuff," she announces, pulling him down the aisle with the brightly colored trees and into one lined with dense green plastic ones. "If we're going all in, we're going for the real deal."

"As much as we can go 'all in' with a plastic tree, anyway." It hits him after a second how easily they slipped into referring to themselves collectively, as _we_, as _us_. He honestly can't say that he minds.

"Naysayer. What about this one?" She paces around a tree that comes up to her shoulder—a smaller tree than usual, but it's good enough for him. He's easing back into the Christmas spirit; one of those seven-foot-tall plastic monstrosities is not the way to go. This one is small and simple—the underdog of the trees available. He'd always rooted for the underdog.

She tries to talk him into letting her pay for the tree, and he finally agrees, seeing as she's the reason why he's finally starting to celebrate again anyway. Her smile when he agrees makes it all worth it anyway. It's hard for him to look at her at times like this and remember the pain in both their pasts. Hard for him to see anything past that smile, the one that reminds him of one of the very first times he saw it, at the fashion show in Newport. Her eyes locking on his, not letting go. How the smile she'd given him that night had made him feel, despite the suit he still felt uncomfortable in, despite the endless rumors swirling about who he was, that he really _belonged_ there.

After the tree is paid for and arranged to be delivered to the house, she returns to his side, lacing her fingers in his. "Where are we off to next?"

"You sure you can handle more?" He glances down at her ankle—nearly healed, since she can walk on it and the sprain wasn't too bad, but still.

She gives him a playful glare. "I did inherit _some_ things from my mother. I could shop with both legs broken."

He holds up his hands in a surrender, laughing. "Lead the way."

* * *

It takes her a day or two to notice it. To notice that despite the time they spend together now, despite how it seemed to help them, he seems to be slipping again. That the small smile she'd seen every so often recently has seemed to disappear within the last few days. That his hands don't linger on her like she'd gotten used to so quickly already.

She wants to ask what's wrong, but she knows from the last few weeks and from their brief acquaintance in Newport that that probably won't do much. It's more than his reluctance to celebrate Christmas, though that's definitely part of it.

_He brought the last of the boxes down from the attic and set it on the floor at her feet, rolling his shoulders a bit and flexing his fingers. He'd refused to let her carry any, since her ankle was still healing. "That's the last of them."_

_She knelt, opening the box and looking in at the ornaments, touching one or two of them briefly and already seeing the memories they must have brought up for him. When his back was to her, she covered a silver Baby's First Christmas ornament nestled deep in the box with the tissue paper it was already wrapped in, making sure it wasn't visible. She didn't think he needed to see that just yet._

"_We can start with the lights," she volunteered, holding up a string. It made more sense to put them on before the ornaments, and it gave him a little time to let it all sink in before they started with the ornaments. The smile he gave her was grateful; he appreciated the slow start. He took the other end of the light strand in his hands and started to help her wrap the tree._

She'd noticed one or two hesitations as he got to certain ornaments, as he looked at them for a moment before looking back up at her, almost as if he'd expected someone else—someone like Jenna—to be standing on the other side of the tree. She understood it, she didn't resent it, but it was hard to watch him deal with the memories when she didn't know what she could do about it.

Besides two or three hesitations, he'd seemed fine. He'd said he loved the tree, and he really had seemed genuine about that. Maybe he had been, but now, a few days later, she wasn't so sure.

The 21st is a Monday, and she'd gotten to his place early for the ride, but she was beginning to think it wasn't such a good idea. The forecast had been predicting a blizzard all day, and it was looking like a weather forecast would actually be right, for once.

As Ryan gets his coat on, she looks back at him from her position at the living room window, concern flickering briefly across her face. "I think tonight might be the night to skip it… it's getting really bad out there; they're saying you shouldn't really drive…"

"I can manage."

"Are you sure?"

He nods, and the worry intensifies as she sees the set of his jaw, how tightly his hands are clenching the zipper of his coat as he fumbles to pull it upwards. By the time they get outside, the snow is coming down even harder, and she can barely see through all the white.

Something is definitely wrong. She tries to reason with him as they get in the car and he starts to pull on his seatbelt. "Ryan, the roads are awful. We'll never make it there in this, and getting back? Forget it."

"Then get out of the car."

His tone is low, dangerous, and the concern and worry she feels suddenly becomes fear—for him. As he starts the car, she takes a breath, tightening her grip on the door handle but not leaving. "No. I'm not leaving."

"Get _out_ of the car!"

"No!" she repeats, more firmly despite the slight shake in her voice, as he pulls out of the driveway and peels down the road, as the speedometer reads about forty miles per hour. Not fast, not normally, but in this kind of snow, it's too much.

"Ryan, just wait until it's cleared up. Or we don't even have to go at all. Just… just turn back or slow down. Just don't drive in this."

He doesn't respond, and she finds herself nearly holding her breath as they get on the highway, despite the protests she's running out of and he's not listening to. The road is empty and practically all white before them—no one is out driving in this. No one is crazy enough to do it. Except for Ryan, who's driving at maybe sixty miles an hour now on a road covered with snow and black ice. She is digging her nails into her palm, her breathing fast and ragged as she tries to reason with him.

"Ryan, please just turn around. It's too dark and it's too dangerous and you shouldn't be driving at all, and not this fast. Just turn the car around."

"We can make it. We can make it there."

"Not if you want to make it there alive!" she practically snaps, the desperate edge in her voice all too obvious, and she realizes just a little too late that this is the wrong thing to say. That it makes him grip the wheel tighter, makes her nails dig into her palm so hard that it hurts.

The words spark a memory, a realization—something she should have realized but didn't. His words from a few days before, about the accident being a few days before Christmas.

_Shit. Oh, shit._

At this point, the speed they're going combined with the realization of what this day is to him is too much for her, and she's well and truly terrified—no point in hiding that. "_Ryan_," she manages, half a sob, half a plea. "Please just pull over. We can wait it out; it'll calm down soon—"

"It never does. They always _say_ that and it never does. We can just keep going—"

"Ryan, _please!_"

Maybe it's the tears in her own voice that have somehow, without her even noticing, started running down her face. Maybe it's the sound of her heart beating so hard in her ears that she can barely hear herself or him. Maybe it's the overwhelming concern she feels for him, the need to know that he's okay. Something possesses her to undo her seatbelt, reach over, and grab the wheel, pulling hard to the right. Ryan hits the brake, and they somehow manage to skid to a stop just as they reach the shoulder. She puts the car in park and yanks the keys out of the ignition after turning the car off, holding them as tight in her hand as she can, bracing for it.

"What the _hell_ were you just thinking? Jesus, Marissa, you're scaring me!"

"_Good_! You're scaring me!" She practically shouts it, the tears streaming down her face in earnest now. "Driving sixty miles per hour in the snow with black ice doesn't scare the hell out of you? Because it sure as hell does for me, and if you can't see that, then _fuck_, Ryan!"

She's breathing so hard that it's literally hurting her, but she keeps talking, afraid to stop, afraid for him to stop listening. "I know what day it is. I _know_ you're hurting. I _know_ and I _get_ that, because I'm there, too, but you can't do this, all right? You can't let it destroy you like this, because you just _can't_, Ryan. It's not healthy and it's not _you_. And… and you can't do this because I want you to still be here. I _need_ you to still be here, Ryan. I just need you."

It's the first time she's let herself say it out loud, besides asking him to stay with her the night she told him about Isobel. She knows, as she says it, that she's telling the truth. He's the only one who has made her smile, made her laugh, in six months, and she doesn't want to face any of this alone anymore. Having someone who understands has made everything so much better, so much brighter. And she hopes that means as much to him as it does to her.

She takes in another deep breath, her chest aching with the effort, and wills him to look at her. Almost bewildered, his eyes meet hers, and he seems to have snapped out of it. He reaches out with one hand, cupping her tear-stained cheek and wiping a few stray tears away with his thumb. He leans in until their foreheads touch, and she can feel his breath on her lips, so close that she shudders, overcome. Fear of him breaking still lingers, but it's mixed with her fear of having him so close, of them reaching this point, of whether or not he's ready for this. She doesn't know what she's more afraid of—her hurting him, or him hurting her. If he'll pull away again after all of this, after everything she just told him…

Those thoughts last all of thirty seconds, because they're wiped out of her mind the second his lips touch hers in the softest kiss imaginable, a feather-light brush of his lips against hers. The hand not cupping her cheek trails down to her back, his warm hand pressing against her sweater, and she finds herself kissing him back, limiting herself to an equally soft kiss, leaving it up to him.

He kisses her just a bit harder, and she responds, following his lead until they've gone as far as they can without tongue or hands all over each other or any of that. She finally breaks for air, flushed, burning hot despite the freezing cold, feeling his hands slip away from her with reluctance. She can feel her lips swollen from it all, touches them hesitantly with one finger, almost wondering if it really happened.

"Are you all right?" she asks quietly, not knowing what else to say to the fact that they'd just kissed on the worst possible day for him. Was it wrong?

He nods, looking out at the snow—much lighter now—before back at her. "I have to start making something good out of this day eventually," he says, quieter than she's ever heard him. "It can't always be like before. I don't want it to always be like before."

She reaches over, taking his hand with the hand not holding the car keys. "It won't be," she whispers, running her thumb over the back of his hand. "It won't be."

* * *

Marissa drives them slowly back to the house, after Ryan tells her it's best. She doesn't want to chance the drive back home, and he tells her to stay. As he goes upstairs, she follows, going into the bedroom with him and standing in the doorway as he sits on the bed. She waits a long time, leaning against the doorjamb, until he speaks.

"I'm sorry. For earlier, and the past few days. I just wasn't in the right place."

"You don't have to apologize. I get it."

His back is to her, but she sees him lean his elbows on his knees, running his hands over his face and through his hair. "Yeah, but you were terrified. Don't think I didn't hear it."

"You would've had to be deaf not to." She straightens up and walks over to the bed, kneeling in front of him and putting her hands on his knees. "The reason you scared me was… you were hurting so badly and I couldn't do anything about it. I know it's been hard for you lately. I know the holidays are going to be hard, too. But you've got me, okay? I'm here. I can just… listen, if you need that. Anything you need, you've got me."

He puts his hands over hers, and she takes it as him accepting the offer, slowly twining their fingers together. She watches his face as he speaks, saying, "The Cohens want me in Newport for Christmas. The McKeevers—Jenna's family—they might be there. And it's been… so long. So long since I've seen them, since I've even been back there… I guess what I'm saying is… is that I'd like it if you were there."

She rocks back onto her heels, considering. She doesn't want to say no—she knows that if he's asking, it's not for nothing, that he really does want her there. Going back to Newport means seeing everyone again. Her father will probably be there. Summer definitely will be, and is she ready to face her former best friend after twelve years? She's not worried about her sister. But then there's her mother…

More particularly, there's her mother and Ryan, neither of whom ever exactly warmed to each other. Thinking about it, though, makes her realize that she can't avoid it forever. She's twenty-eight, and her mother will have to live with not being able to control her decisions the way she'd tried to while she was in high school. And Ryan… well, she'll try as hard as she can to keep him out of the crossfire. He's got enough stress already.

She nods, taking in a slow breath. "Okay. I'll see about a plane ticket tomorrow. Hopefully we'll have a Christmas miracle on our hands."

"Yeah, probably should have thought of this sooner." He laughs just a little, and the sound of it makes her heart lift. He moves back to the left side of the bed, pulling her up with him so that she's lying on the right side. He rests his right arm beneath her, his hand on her arm, and she drapes her other arm over him, staying close.

After a minute, she raises her head to look at him, saying softly, "Answer me honestly. Are you really okay?"

His hand moves from her arm to her hair, smoothing it. "Maybe not yet. But I will be."


	7. I'll Be Home for Christmas

**A/N: Okay, so, there's no suitable apologies for the long wait and I will say that I am really sorry. I ran into more problems writing this chapter than I thought I would, and I have a terrible problem of not drafting, which I will probably do for this story from here on out. It ends on a slight cliffhanger because I'm still straightening out how I want to write Seth and Summer, and I want to really get their voices right rather than giving you guys something half-assed and bad. It's also shorter than most, but we'll be getting into the real meat of Christmas Eve/Christmas in the next chapter.  
**

**I have a heavier courseload this semester and might not have as much time to write, but once I draft, I'm hoping that I'll be able to write quicker and have an easier time with this. I hope you all enjoy and that you forgive me for the hideously long time I left you guys hanging! Happy Valentine's Day/Singles Awareness Day, too! :)**

**My favorite version of "I'll Be Home for Christmas" is by the band Everly.  
**

* * *

VII.

I'll Be Home for Christmas

_Thursday, December 24__th_

Packing was still something that was somewhat foreign to him. When he'd left Chino, he'd basically gone with the clothes on his back and what little he could stuff in a backpack. Even when he'd moved to New York, he hadn't had much to pack—the McKeevers had already packed away the house for him; all that had been left was his clothes and a few other things.

So it took him a while to pack for his return to Newport, after he'd done a few loads of laundry and found himself staring at the business clothes he hadn't worn in two years. Christmas dinner with the Cohens required at least a shirt and tie; he wanted to show them he was trying, because he was. The clothes were a return to form, the type of thing he'd had to wear for meetings with clients and the like, but it was still like looking at remnants of another life.

He'd folded a few button-downs and some ties, throwing in some t-shirts, jeans, and dress pants while he was at it. He'd called Kirsten to let her know that he was coming, and to ask if she was all right with Marissa coming, too. (Luck had been on their side; a plane ticket had still been available.) She'd welcomed Marissa to come, no problem, and had added that they were welcome to stay to New Year's, if they wanted. He'd told her they'd see how things panned out, and none of them had to say it to know that he meant, above all, things with Julie.

After he'd packed the Christmas gifts in with his clothes, he went into the bathroom, grabbing his shower things and razor to throw in with the rest. He hesitated before he grabbed the bottle with his pain pills, packing it. His shoulder had still been giving him trouble lately, and it was better safe than sorry.

So after the trials and travails of packing, he found himself with Marissa in the waiting area of the airport, waiting for their flight to begin boarding. It had been an early morning, and she was asleep against his shoulder, some of her hair falling over her face. He brushed it back and then just watched her for a while, listening to her steady breathing. The smallest things could fascinate him, could remind him of the things he'd forgotten that he loved to look for.

Since the anniversary, they'd talked on the phone, too busy with Christmas shopping and preparations to really see each other, and, true to her word, she'd listened. He hadn't realized how much he had to say until he'd had someone to say it to. Similarly, she'd told him about Isobel, had actually been able to laugh about some of the memories.

The drive that night had really been a wakeup call. For two years, he'd been grieving, doing the bare minimum to survive, living without really _living_. It had taken something that could've killed himself and Marissa to make him see that it wasn't something he could do anymore.

When he hears their flight number called, he gently rouses her and gets up, grabbing his bags. She combs through her hair with her fingers for a few seconds before getting up herself, taking her things and following him to the gate.

"Here goes nothing," she murmurs, and he can't agree more.

* * *

Kirsten is the one who picks them up from the airport, and he can't even pretend not to have noticed the relief on her face when she sees him well and even somewhat happy. It's been two years since he saw her last, and nothing except seeing him in person appears to have assuaged her concerns.

He returns the hug she gives him and then steps back, motioning to Marissa. "Not like you two haven't already met, but…"

"Of course. It's so nice to see you again," Kirsten says to Marissa, giving her a smile. "Your father told me you were in New York; none of us knew you were so close by to Ryan."

"Neither did we," Marissa laughs a little. "Coincidence. A good one, though."

They spend the drive answering questions from Kirsten about the snow, the people, the places in New York, and Ryan tells her the saga of the plastic Christmas tree, something that seems to reassure her about his wellbeing. He notices that she seems to approve of him being with Marissa, and it puts his nerves at ease the slightest bit. Wondering about how the McKeevers might feel is what's setting him on edge. He knows they'll be happy for him, but he knows that that another anniversary gone was probably as hard on them as it was for him. Emotions are running high, and he has no idea what might happen.

Kirsten helps them unload their bags and points towards the pool house. "We'll be full up with Seth and Summer, so I thought the pool house might still be good for the two of you…?"

It's still difficult for him to think about, to remember sitting there in those two months, with his broken body and spirits, but it's always been his home there, and even the memories can't touch that. "Yeah, that's fine. When is Seth coming, anyway?"

"Around six o'clock, or at least that's what he told me. Cohen Standard Time, we can count on them at seven," she laughs, running some of her fingers through her hair and checking her watch. "I should be helping Sandy with the food. And by helping, I mean going through the cabinets and handing him what he needs. The two of you are all right with your luggage? Okay. We should be sitting down to eat around seven thirty; that'll give you time to settle in."

By the time six o'clock rolls around, they're washing up and getting dressed, and Ryan realizes that this is another one of the things he'd missed. He and Jenna had had to go to many parties and events for his business, rubbing elbows and all of that, and there'd been a lot of shuffling in and out of the shared bathroom, tying ties and zipping zippers, and just laughing in general about the ridiculously complicated process of dressing for these things.

He stands in front of the mirror on the main room's wall, finally managing to get the proper knot out of his tie. He'd learned how to do it well when he was about 22; Sandy had reminded him that that was three years before he had, so he was on the right track. He pauses for a second, remembering the day of the fashion show, Sandy having to help him with the tie. It had been one of those moments when it had really hit him, the things a father was supposed to teach a son, the things he'd never really learned.

Now that he thinks of it, the things he probably would have been teaching Cody.

"Hey, Ryan?" He looks up as he hears Marissa call out from the bathroom. "Could you help me get my zipper?"

He goes into the bathroom, taking the zipper on her dress and zipping it for her. "Still can't reach, I see."

"Quiet." She smoothes the dress out with her hands and then turns to face him, holding her arms out from her sides and then spinning a little. "So? Good enough?"

"It's… more than that. You look amazing." And he can barely manage that, because the sight of her really does leave him speechless. She's pulled her hair into a nice twist, a tortoiseshell clip holding it in place, and it's clear that she's put time and effort into this. But the dress is what really makes him look. Falling to her knees, it's plain black, strapped, and fits well to her figure, but not so well as to be indecent or excessive. It at least reassures him, makes him realize that she's improving—when they'd met again, that first night in the group, he'd noticed how ill-fitting her clothes had been, how she'd lost weight, been paler. Now, with color back in her cheeks and a little weight back on her figure, filling out her curves, the difference is really striking.

She gives him that smile, and he leans in to give her a quick kiss, before holding up his bottle of cologne and his shaving things. "I just need to shave for a minute and then we can go in."

"Sure, no problem." She leaves the bathroom, sitting down on the bed to wait for him, noticing that his bag is open on the floor. She reaches down to zip it shut for him, and the motion of her hands as she does so makes something roll to the front of the bag, visible through the unzipped part.

She picks it up, confused, wondering why Ryan has a prescription bottle in his bag, similar to the ones of Isobel's antidepressants still sitting in the medicine cabinets in her home. It's that always-recognizable bright orange plastic, with one of those impossible caps. _Ryan Atwood_. Says it right there on the label. The name of the medication isn't familiar, but she can hazard a guess from the instructions that it's painkillers. The thing is, she doesn't remember him getting injured recently.

She shoves the pill bottle back in his bag, zipping it like she'd planned, taking in a breath. She's confused and, admittedly, scared. The last pills she'd seen were Isobel's, and, well…

She stands as she hears the bathroom door open, as Ryan comes out freshly shaved and adjusting the knot in his tie. "Ready?" he asks, holding out his arm to her, almost as a joke, and she takes it.

Before she can stop herself, she blurts out, "Ryan?"

He sees the anxiety in her face and stands still, wondering what it is—if it's about seeing Summer again, about being back in Newport, about the lingering question of her mother. "What is it?"

She almost asks, almost wants to demand to know if he's been keeping anything from her, but she looks outside, sees the inviting atmosphere of the Cohens' household, knows everyone's waiting. She thinks of Ryan telling her he doesn't often talk, thinks of the number of times she's kept things from others. Thinks of how it would be unfair to force him, to ask him now of all times.

So she forces a smile onto her face and waves a hand, turning in the direction of the house. "It's… it's nothing. Nothing that can't wait until later."

And as they start to walk to the house, she tries to make herself believe that.

_It's nothing. It has to be nothing.

* * *

_

It's a lie. He knows that. Whatever _nothing_ she wanted to ask him about is a great big _something_, which was obvious from the look on her face before she'd put on that forced smile. She wasn't exactly making the effort to hide the lie.

He doesn't want to question her, even if he knows he should. Now isn't exactly the right time to get into it, anyway. So after she reassures him she's fine, they walk to the house and in, each of them seemingly needing to take a breath before they do.

Sandy is in the kitchen with Kirsten, who checks her watch and laughs. "Like I said, it's six o'clock and they're not here, so count on seven. Marissa, I could use your help setting up some of the appetizers, if you're okay with that?"

Marissa nods, and Sandy enlists Ryan's help in some last-minute tree decorating, leaving them alone in the kitchen. As Kirsten goes into the cabinets to find plates, she talks over her shoulder. "Seth and Sandy never trusted me to prepare the food; this is about the closest they'll let me get. I accepted my role in the preparations a long time ago. Besides, it's nice to let the boys do the work once in a while."

She puts the plates down on the counter, smiling faintly and shaking her head, before her expression becomes more serious. "This is the first holiday we've had Ryan for in two years. The first year, I don't think he even moved from his room. He was still recovering and he was just… well, you've probably seen the way he's been." She pauses from pouring apple sauce for the latkes on a plate, looking up and brushing some hair behind her ear, looking Marissa in the eye. "It's been… a long time since we've seen him at all, let alone happy. From what Sandy's told me, and seeing him today, seeing the change…" She considers her words for a second or two before she continues. "Marissa, I know that most of it is because of you, and we just… really want to thank you. You're making him happier than you know."

Marissa ducks her head, blinking back what feels like tears—happy ones, though, which is a welcome change from the past six months. She can't even put into words how Ryan makes her feel the same way. How these days, it's even gotten easier to be alone, because she knows that Ryan is always around, that either of them can call the other if they need to. Losing Isobel isn't as crushing as it once was, and she's starting to realize that.

"I think I have an idea," she says, quieter than she means to, and she offers Kirsten a small smile. "He's… having him has been a lifesaver, these past few weeks. He's been helping me, too."

* * *

Sandy asks Ryan if he can go get one of the boxes of ornaments from the attic, and Ryan agrees, heading up the stairs and into the hallway. He doesn't think of it at first, until he stops, seeing the pictures. And as much as he'd expected to be paralyzed, to get that numb feeling he'd gotten from sitting with the videos over the last two years, he finds that he can stop, look, remember the good times.

There's more than a few pictures of the four of them in the past—the Cohens and him. Their first Chrismukkah together, that one still has a place of honor right at the top of the stairs. Him and Seth graduating from college. His wedding, then Seth and Summer's.

He can see the blank spot on the wall, square and faded to a lighter color than the rest, an empty space. And he remembers what used to hang there, and the day two years ago that he took it down.

_It's two in the morning and everyone in their right mind is asleep right now, but he can't exactly say he's in his right mind, or that he's been sleeping lately. No, insomnia is apparently what comes with pain, whether it's the physical pain of his shoulder or the much worse pain in his heart._

_Coming home from the hospital, he'd seen it, something they hadn't thought of moving. They'd been spending hours waiting for him to wake up; he was sure the last thing on their minds had been preparing the house. They wouldn't have thought of taking it down, but he did._

_The picture frame is heavier than he would've thought, a dense metal that's tough to handle with one hand, with his other arm still in a sling because of his damn shoulder. He grits his teeth as he takes down the frame, ignoring the pain slicing through his other shoulder and down his arm at the movement. He somehow manages to pull the attic steps from the ceiling, climbing up and putting the photo away where he knows he won't have to see it again._

He takes a breath before he pulls the steps down again, climbing up to the attic, mercifully not feeling any pain in his shoulder. It's the damp in the New York air that's been bothering him lately; the warmth of California seems to be helping.

He finds the box of ornaments with ease, seeing as it's the last one, and then stays there, rooting around. He finds what he's looking for in a far corner of the top shelf, pulling it down and looking.

It's the picture of him and Jenna in the hospital, holding Cody. Jenna, exhausted but smiling, the hospital ID band hanging loosely from her wrist, cradling their son in her arms for the first time. He can remember the smile he'd given the camera once he sees it right in front of him.

And what surprises him the most is that he can smile, seeing it. He's never been at that point before. Two years ago, seeing this reminder of that life would have made him want to punch something; a year ago, he just would've wanted a drink.

It's different now.

"I found someone, Jen," he says quietly, knowing it's ridiculous to talk to a picture, as if she can hear him, but it slips out before he can stop himself. "I told you about her a few times. Knew her once when we were younger. And I didn't think I'd ever find her again, but… but I think there's a reason I did. Sandy told me you'd be happy for me. And I'd like to think he's right."

He sits for a minute more, before he kisses his fingers and presses them briefly to the dusty frame, putting the photo back on the shelf and rubbing the dust from his fingers. And he grabs the box of the ornaments and heads back downstairs.

* * *

Around 6:45, he finds Marissa in the kitchen, sipping at a glass of water and looking out the window at the covered pool and the rest of the yard. Sandy and Kirsten are setting the table in the dining room, and he wants to take a minute alone with her before all the madness, to make sure she's okay with it all.

"Hey," he says softly, and she starts for a second, setting down the glass of water. He walks to her, putting his arm gently around her waist and letting his hand rest at her hip. "You all right?"

She nods, but there's a slight distance in her look. "Just… remembering. Being next door. Is it weird that I miss it some days?"

He shakes his head, knowing that he misses it here, too, despite the memories, despite the pain. He's realizing it even more, being back here. "No. Not weird."

She steps closer as he faces her, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding on. Surprised and a little confused, he wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her close and breathing in the scent of her hair before asking. "What is it? What you wanted to ask me before… is it bothering you?"

She nods against his chest, looking up at him with a certain fear in her eyes that scares him. Has he done anything to upset her? He thinks back and can't remember a thing that would, but he nods slightly, encouraging her to go on, to say it.

"I was zipping your bag for you and I… I didn't mean to find it, it just kind of fell out… the prescription bottle." She's fumbling over her words, and he can feel her trembling, almost. "And I just—I know there's a reason for them and I know there's probably a reason you haven't mentioned it, but the last time I saw pills was Isobel and I can't—"

"Hey, hey." Concerned, he cups her cheek with his hand and wipes away a tear he's sure she didn't want to fall. He realizes for the first time how fragile she still is. For the past few weeks, she's been the one focused on him, and it's easy to forget sometimes that she needs him, too. The regret over not telling her about the pills comes fast and hard. He speaks softly, rubbing one of his hands gently along her back, trying to calm her down.

"They're for my shoulder. Every once in a while, it acts up because of the damp, and some days it's worse than others. It's not an everyday thing. I didn't want to tell you because I thought it would worry you if you knew I still had pain. That's all they are, okay? That's all."

She nods, holding him tighter, and he kisses the top of her head before standing there with her, letting her pull away when she's ready.

She wipes at her eyes with her wrist, then laughs a bit. "I should probably fix my makeup."

He nods in agreement, laughing a little, too, but he grabs her hand before she goes to leave. "I didn't mean to scare you. I'm sorry I did."

She steps back to him, kissing him gently as a reassurance, then reaching out to straighten his tie. "It's okay. I'm glad you told me now. Just… if you're ever in pain, don't try to hide it, okay?"

"And if you ever want to ask me something, ask me. Don't let it fester like that. Deal?"

She smiles, agreeing softly, "Deal."

She takes her purse from the counter, and he points her towards the bathroom so she can fix her makeup. As the door closes behind her and he walks into the hallway, the sound of the door opening and shutting, accompanied by voices, means only one thing.

Seth and Summer.


	8. Old School

**A/N: And here it is, the really, really delayed Chapter 8! I really am sorry about the delay, you guys, though the good news is that I'm done with my semester and have the whole summer ahead of me. I really want to stop starting off every chapter with apologies about the delays, so here's to hoping! Enjoy!**

**"Old School" is a song by Hedley.**

* * *

VIII.

Old School

_Thursday, December 24__th__ and Friday, December 25__th_

She reapplies her mascara as carefully as she can, wiping the smudged makeup from her wrist and face before she does. She adds another coat of lipstick, in case kissing Ryan smudged it, and then looks in the mirror. Her eyes aren't too red, and beyond her nervousness, she can smile. It's been a long time since she felt like she could smile and mean it.

She smoothes her dress down, just needing to stay in here for a minute, away from the others, and compose herself. Ryan assured her that nothing is wrong with him, but she can't shake that fear, that horrible feeling of _what if?_ Sure, nothing is wrong _now_, but what about the future? The thought of him hurting gives her a sort of pain she doesn't think she can handle.

She closes her eyes for a second, thinks of his arms around her, his promise to tell her if he's in pain. And if she knows one thing about him, it's that he's honest, that he wouldn't lie to her. She lets that comfort her.

That comfort lasts for all of two seconds, because she can hear the door open, can hear voices somewhere in the house. Voices she recognizes. Voices she's still not sure she can face.

She places the mascara and the lipstick in her purse, and as she opens the door, she finds Ryan standing outside of it with his hand raised to knock. They each smile faintly, and she links her arm around his, reaching her hand down to his and squeezing lightly, a reminder to them both that they're in this together.

They walk together to the front hall, seeing Kirsten and Sandy greeting Seth and Summer. Upon seeing Ryan, Seth breaks from Sandy's hug and walks to him, giving him a smile that seems almost tentative—nothing like she'd ever seen from Seth, in the admittedly brief time she'd known him.

"Ryan. My favorite Gentile, home again for Chrismukkah." He goes to clap Ryan on the shoulder, reconsiders, and pulls him into a hug. Marissa has to smile, gently pulling her arm free so Ryan can reciprocate.

"Good to be back," Ryan says, and Marissa is pleased that it sounds genuine. She can't be any happier for him.

When Seth pulls away from the hug, he looks over at her, almost doing a double take. He has just barely opened his mouth to speak when Summer says, disbelievingly, "Coop?"

She can take a wild guess and figure that Kirsten and Sandy had chosen not to say anything about her when they'd mentioned Ryan coming home for the holidays. Maybe because they hadn't wanted Summer to back out. Maybe because they'd wanted Ryan and Marissa to break it themselves. She has no idea, but she's lost for words—what is she supposed to say? She knows there's no excuse she can make, no apology that would even begin to cover it.

Still, she can't help but take Summer calling her 'Coop' as a good sign. If she's still willing to call her by her nickname, maybe there's hope.

She looks to Ryan, who nods, giving her hand another squeeze, a signal. She can guess he wants time alone with the Cohens as much as she wants it with Summer, and she squeezes his hand back before stepping away and nodding to Summer.

Summer leads her to Seth's old room, switching the light on and shutting the door behind them. The room looks almost no different than it must have when he was in high school, and she can tell that Kirsten maintains the room well even if no one lives in it anymore. Summer sits on the bed, and Marissa joins her, fidgeting some with her hands.

"Sum—" she starts to say, but Summer holds up her hands, cutting her off. She swallows hard, and when she looks up at Marissa, there are tears in her eyes.

"No, Marissa, I'm—sorry. I should've tried harder to get through to you. But your mom was being such a bitch and I just couldn't get past her, and your dad was gone and I didn't know how—"

"Sum. Summer." Marissa puts her hands gently on Summer's knees, getting teary herself—she is glad Summer harbors no resentment, but at the same time, it breaks her heart that there is something Summer could have harbored resentment for in the first place. "The phone rings both ways. I could've tried you, too. I was just—scared. Of what you'd think. I know I shouldn't have been; it was stupid—"

"We were both being stupid," Summer concedes, laughing softly and putting her hands over Marissa's. "Your mom's the one who should apologize; you don't have to."

Marissa knows she does, but that will come later. Right now, there is so much she has to say, has to ask. "Ryan told me you and Seth have been going strong. I guess you guys really made it, huh?"

Summer nods, smiling and then looking away for just a second. "And you and Ryan, huh? How long has that been going on?"

"Honestly? About three weeks," Marissa laughs, knowing how absurd it sounds—the two of them together, emotional issues and all, so attached to each other after only a few weeks. "It's been… intense. Rough sometimes. But intense."

"He took it really hard," Summer says, a little quieter, moving her hands from under Marissa's and reaching up to fix her hair. "I mean, who wouldn't, right?" Marissa flinches a bit and is grateful Summer's preoccupation with her hair keeps her from noticing. She's not ready to tell someone else about Isobel just yet, even if it is Summer. "Seth didn't really know what to do. None of them did. This is the first time I've seen him in at least a year." She stops playing with her hair, looking up at Marissa, an almost pleading expression in her eyes. "Can I tell you something?"

"Anything, Sum—you know that."

Summer hesitates, and this time she is the one to play with her hands. "I'm pregnant," she blurts. "Seth and me, we've known for a while—we just didn't know how to tell Ryan, because of Jenna and Cody, and we haven't said anything to anyone yet… do you think he'd take it all right? It's getting to the point we won't be able to hide it, and we just don't want to upset him…"

Marissa needs a minute to take it all in. What happened on the anniversary is still forefront in her mind, and she can't push it back, as much as she'd like to. Ryan isn't always as fine as she seems, and she knows that now—the driving was one thing; not telling her about the pain pills was another, even if part of it was not wanting to upset her. Still, he's making a real effort—with her, with the Cohens, with the McKeevers—and she wants to think being an uncle would make him happy, not upset.

She pulls Summer into a big hug, smiling and holding her shoulders once she pulls away. "I think he'll be happy for you guys, Sum. The Cohens, too. _I'm _happy for you, if that counts."

"Of course it does," Summer laughs, squeezing back tightly and then breaking away, looking Marissa up and down, as if in appraisal. "I'm… really glad you're back, Coop. I missed you."

Marissa squeezes her shoulders, smiling. "Thanks, Sum. I missed you, too."

* * *

She sits next to Ryan at the dining room table, her fingers laced loosely in his, their hands resting on his thigh. She's nervous about how he might react to Seth and Summer's news, no matter how confident she'd been when she reassured Summer. For now, she strokes her thumb lightly over his knuckles, wishing for a minute alone, any chance to know how he was doing. Still, the faint smiles he gave her periodically were enough for now, and she took what she could get.

Kirsten has outdone herself—Sandy, Seth, and Ryan are emphatic when they say her cooking has improved over the years. They are eating dessert when Summer catches Seth's eye, then hers. Marissa gives a slight nod, seemingly the signal of the evening, and Summer finally speaks up. "Everybody? Seth and me had… something we wanted to tell everyone."

It's not exactly hard to guess—what other announcement can there be for a young married couple?—and Marissa shifts her hand, pressing her palm to Ryan's and lacing their fingers together, wanting him to have something to hold onto.

"We're pregnant," Summer announces, smiling faintly and looking around almost nervously—Sandy and Kirsten are grinning, and when Marissa dares to look at Ryan, she sees it: the faintest flicker of grief in his eyes, quickly banished by the smile that lights his face.

"We've known for a while but we wanted to wait until the holidays," Summer said almost apologetically after the congratulations were out of the way. The undertones of her statement are clear, but no one comments.

"Best present of them all," Seth boasts, and the rest of them laugh tentatively. Ryan's genuine laugh seems to break the ice, and everyone settles comfortably after that, no longer feeling the need to tread so very delicately. Marissa concentrates on dividing the brownie they're sharing, and the two of them laugh together as she spoons a bit into his mouth.

Ryan and Marissa volunteer to clear the table after dessert is done, having reached an unspoken agreement to give the Cohens some more time to talk and celebrate. Ryan takes the bulk of the dishes, leaving her the silverware, and she follows him into the kitchen, helping him load the dishwasher.

As he bends to arrange the dishes, she leans down, brushing her lips along the back of his neck, whispering, "Were you all right back there?"

"I'm fine," he tells her, but as he straightens and turns on the dishwasher, her hand on his shoulder seems to stop him. She steps closer, wrapping her arms around his waist and standing with him, a mirror image of their position just a few hours before, when he'd held her as she cried over the pain pills. Something fundamental has shifted; this time, Ryan is the one who needs her.

She leans in to him, pressing her forehead against his and whispering, "You have to tell me if you need to talk, okay? You know I'm here."

"I know," he says quietly, closing his eyes and then opening them again, looking into hers. "You should go get ready for bed, all right? You're probably exhausted. I'll be there in a minute."

She kisses his cheek and lets herself out into the backyard, walking around to the pool house. With a bit of finagling, she manages to unzip the dress herself and step out of it, hanging it up on the back of the bathroom door. She's just putting on her pajama top when she hears her cell phone ringing in the main room.

She dashes out into the main room in the top and her panties, fumbling to find her cell phone in her purse. She picks it up without looking at the screen—normally she'd check, since she avoids her mother's calls, but she'd wanted to pick up before it went to voicemail. "Hello?"

"Marissa, hey, sweetheart. How are you?"

"Dad!" she exclaims, happily—she hasn't heard from him in a few weeks. Her face falls as she remembers the last time she'd seen him in person. He'd stayed with her for a few weeks after Isobel's death, trying to help her pick up the pieces. He'd been the one to pack up most of Isobel's things; he'd been the one holding her on the nights she couldn't fall asleep.

She shakes off the memories, sitting on the bed and asking, "You're calling pretty late; everything all right?"

"Everything's fine. I just wanted to let you know I'm coming out to Newport for New Year's—Kirsten called me, let me know you were coming. I just wanted to see you, make sure you're…" He seems to search for the right word, and finally settles on "coping."

"Dad, I'm…" She wants to say _great_, but as her lips begin to form the word, she stops and thinks of her breakdown in the kitchen earlier that evening. The thought of Ryan taking pain pills had been enough to bring her to tears; is she really all right? She doesn't know, but she does know that Ryan holding her made it better, easier.

"I'm… dating Ryan," she finishes, hoping that's a good enough indication that she's doing better. She's getting back to the real world. "You remember Ryan?"

"I wouldn't forget him," Jimmy says, with a dry laugh, and she worries for a second—did Julie sway Jimmy to her side on this one?—before he says, "The one who found you in Tijuana."

She could kick herself for letting that come up—it's not something she likes to dwell on—and for being stupid enough to think he wouldn't remember. Her dad was always close with Kirsten; of course he'd know who Ryan was. Still, all she can think of are the repeated efforts Julie had made to keep Ryan from their family.

"He's the one," she says quietly. "Are you all right with that?"

"I'm not your mom, Marissa. I never minded him—never got much of a chance to know him, really. He certainly helped the night of Cotillion."

She winces at the memories, but she says hopefully, "So you wouldn't mind really meeting him? Getting lunch or something?"

"Of course not; just name the day once I'm out there. It sounds like he's been making you happy, sweetheart. That's all that matters to me. Listen, it's getting late, so I'll let you go, but I'll be out there in a few days, all right?"

"Sounds great," Marissa said softly. "Love you, Dad."

"Love you, too. 'Night."

* * *

After the dishes have been placed in the dishwasher, Ryan finds himself with nothing else to do. He doesn't want to go back to the pool house just yet, but he does want to talk to the Cohens. Kirsten, at the very least—he's not sure if he can face Seth just yet.

He'd told Marissa he was fine, a reassurance he's sure he'll be repeating many times over the next few days, but really, he's conflicted. He's happy enough that Seth and Summer have decided to take the leap and start a family, but the news has dredged up so many memories that he's not sure how well he'll be sleeping. Already, the ache has settled in his chest, reminding him of the life he used to have.

He rests his palms on the counter and leans in, looking out the kitchen window and over to the pool house. He can see Marissa silhouetted faintly in the dying light, and the sight of her is a comfort. He might not have his old life, but he's building a new one, isn't he?

He hears the sounds of the Cohens dispersing and heading off to bed, and he turns to say good night to them as they pass through the kitchen on their way to the stairs. Kirsten lingers, going to the sink to rinse out the glasses and dry them so she can place them back in the cabinet.

"Dinner was great," he starts, a bit awkwardly, just to make her look up. "Marissa really enjoyed it, said the brownies were delicious."

"I'm glad," Kirsten says lightly, with a faint smile. "But I take it you didn't stay here just so you could talk about dinner."

Caught. He gave it a second before he turned so that he was really facing her, instead of just turning his head in her direction. "I know that… that I never really returned any of your calls, and the only one I really gave a chance these past few years was Sandy… and I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. Being back here… I can't ignore that I shut all of you out."

Kirsten reaches over, placing one of her hands over his. "Ryan, none of us ever blamed you. I won't deny that it hurt, knowing we couldn't help you the way we wanted to, but we never blamed you. I was actually glad when you decided to move—I thought it would help you, getting away from the memories for a while." She nods in the direction of the pool house. "And it seems like it's been the best thing for you."

"She's been helping." There's more to it than that, but he can't find words for it. "I'll make more of an effort now. Especially now that Seth and Summer…"

He doesn't finish the sentence—can't, just yet—and Kirsten gives his hand a gentle squeeze before she rinses the last glass and puts it away. She reaches out, putting her hand on his good shoulder before she gives him a brief hug and a "good night."

He returns the hug, finally going out to the pool house once Kirsten has gone upstairs. He finds Marissa sitting on the bed cross-legged in a shirt and panties, and her face reddens once he walks in and she gets up, realizing. "Sorry. My dad called while I was changing and I forgot—"

He waves a hand to quiet her. "It's fine. It'd come up eventually," he tells her, and she smiles faintly, sitting back down on the bed and waiting for him to finish changing.

When he sits down on the bed, she shifts so she's behind him and places her hands on his shoulders to gently massage them, kneading her fingers into warm skin covered by the soft cloth of his t-shirt. "You're doing great," she says softly, whispering in his ear, speaking softly to try and soothe him. He seems worn out by more than just the long day. "I'm proud of you, for what it's worth."

"It's worth a lot," he responds, equally soft, turning his head and meeting her lips, kissing her gently as she keeps rubbing his shoulders. "You're… really helping, Marissa. I really appreciate that."

"I'm glad," she whispers into his lips, almost every inch of her on fire with the feeling of his breath on her lips. "You've been helping me, too. I just want to do for you what you've been doing for me. We're in this together, right?"

"Right." He nods, and his eyes flicker to hers for a moment and then away. "Would you mind if I asked you to do something with me?"

She shakes her head, and he continues. "I wanted… for Christmas, and then after hearing Seth and Summer… I thought I should go to the cemetery."

She kisses his cheek gently, and she whispers a _yes_. After a while, the steady motions of her hands on his shoulders lull him into drowsiness, and she stops when he's about to fall asleep. He lies down on the bed, and she lies next to him, draping her left arm gently over his chest and closing her eyes. His breathing is what she hears as she drifts off into sleep.

* * *

The Santa Ana winds are wreaking havoc on her hair, and she finally pulls a ponytail holder from her wrist and ties it up as they walk into the cemetery. Once she's done that, it's all she can do to pull her jacket closer around her, partly because she's genuinely chilled by the wind, partly to occupy her hands. She's not holding Ryan's—it feels too intimate a gesture for the cemetery, when they've gone to visit his wife and child.

Ryan leads her through the rows of headstones, but he slows as they seem to be reaching their destination, and she stops just behind him and asks gently, "All right?"

He nods, but he's looking into the distance, and she follows his gaze to a couple knelt in front of two headstones side by side. They're a bit older than Sandy and Kirsten, graying slightly, and she realizes from the look on his face that these must be the McKeevers.

He starts towards them, but she gently grabs his wrist, a silent _are you sure?_ He nods and keeps going, and she follows, but stops a few yards away, letting him cross the distance alone, wanting to give him space and some time with his former in-laws.

Claire and Toby McKeever are dressed simply in jeans and t-shirts, just like he is. It had seemed senseless to get dressed up when he'd known he would be sitting on the ground by the headstones, and they still had some time yet before dinner. His shoes crunch the dry grass underfoot, and Toby is the first one to look up, although Claire is the one to actually speak.

"Ryan! Oh, sweetheart, you thought of coming here, too… it's been so long," Claire says tearily as he knelt by them, and before he can react, he is pulled into a hug by his former mother-in-law, and Toby's hand is resting on one of his shoulders, in lieu of a hug.

"Thought it was a good idea. For Christmas," he says as they break apart, and he sets down the roses he'd brought earlier at a florist not far from the cemetery. Jenna had always liked them, and he'd tried to bring them the few times he'd came before moving out to New York.

Claire blinks back her tears, and though he can tell she wants to question him about how he's been, for a few minutes it's all they can do to sit there, looking at Jenna and Cody's graves and remembering, wishing, telling themselves not to wish.

Finally, Toby breaks the silence, asking Ryan, "How you been, kid?"

"Better." He feels as though he can actually say it, as though things have been looking up—his injuries have healed since he saw them last, and his life in general has been heading in a better direction. He has the members of the group, he has the Cohens again, and he has Marissa. "Things are… improving."

"That's wonderful, sweetheart," Claire says gently, before she looks over his shoulder and apparently spots Marissa, because her next question entails a nod in Marissa's direction and the words, "And who's this?"

She doesn't say it meanly, and in fact she's smiling kindly, and Ryan turns his head and motions for Marissa to come closer, which she does after a slight hesitation. "This is Marissa. She used to be the Cohens' neighbor, and we ran into each other in New York. We're…"

He wants to say _together_, but he can't quite get the words out, not when he's almost scared to look at the McKeevers and see what they might be feeling, not when he's really faced with Jenna's grave. Talking to the pictures was one thing; sitting on the ground above a tangible reminder that Jenna is gone is quite another.

When he finally does look up, Claire is smiling, and even Toby seems to be feeling a gruff sort of happiness. Claire has reached out and kindly grasped Marissa's hand, welcoming her, and Toby gives her a congenial nod. Marissa's smile is nervous, but the glance she gives Ryan is relieved. Hopeful, even. He finds her hand once Claire has let it go and gives it a gentle squeeze.

Eventually, the McKeevers depart to give Ryan time alone with Jenna and Cody's graves, and a silent promise to talk later passes between them. He watches as they depart for their car and drive away, and Marissa is about to get up when he tugs at her hand to pull her back down, saying softly, "Stay."

She nods and stays put, sitting with him, her hand on his shoulder. The winds have calmed and the air is still, and the silence is oddly comforting. She realizes that for the first time in the past few weeks, she's not worried about whether or not Ryan's okay—because, she realizes, he really seems like he is. He's peaceful, almost, sitting in silent communion with the graves of his wife and the child they had together. It still hurts to think of the pain he'd gone through, a pain she can almost share, but she's grateful to have witnessed this, to be able to have this reassurance.

His fingers reach out to trace the petals on one of the roses; his eyes roam for one last time over the names and dates on the headstones. Finally, he stands, whispers something that she's almost certain is an _"I love you both"_ into the wind. Then he grabs her hand and leads her back to the car.


	9. Back To You

**A/N: Here it is! I swore this chapter would be shorter than the last one, but that didn't quite go as planned, as you will be able to tell from the nearly six thousand words it ended up being! Hopefully it covered a lot of the things you guys were waiting to see.**

**"Back To You" is a song by John Mayer.**

* * *

IX.

Back To You

_Thursday, December 29__th__ through Saturday, December 31__st_

It doesn't take long for her to get used to waking up with Ryan's arms around her. They've seemingly graduated from spooning to her sleeping in his embrace, and she can't say that she minds. It feels comfortable. Right, even.

It had taken her a couple days to really think about it, to have it sink in that she really has hated living alone over the past six months. She and Ryan doing their nightly routines together in the pool house's tiny bathroom had been enough to make her realize that she missed this, having a person to share these things with, the day-to-day things you only really noticed when another person was doing them.

She wakes up alone one morning, and when she rolls over and stretches her hand out, the other side of the bed is cold. Confused, she sits up, craning her neck to look over the headboard and into the bathroom—lights off, empty.

She gets up and makes an effort to run her fingers through her hair before she leaves the pool house and makes her way into the house and to the kitchen, wearing the old t-shirt and flannel pants that serve as her pajamas. By now, Ryan and the Cohens have seen her in the mornings, so she has no compunctions about being underdressed for breakfast.

She finds Ryan in the kitchen, putting something on a plate she can't see as she goes to the coffemaker. "Morning," she says, a bit groggily, reaching for the pot and a mug.

He turns, as if startled at the noise, before giving her a smile. He indicates the waffle iron and then the plate he'd put beside it, stacked high with a few Belgian waffles. "Morning. Waffles?"

She groans, half-exaggerating, half-not. "Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"You, making breakfast. Something I can't do, by the way. You're too perfect."

"Well, you somehow manage to look great even just having rolled out of bed, so we're even." He crosses to her and gives her a gentle kiss, even though she knows the scent of coffee on her breath probably isn't the most appealing. "Good morning. Again."

"Morning," she repeats softly, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Where're Sandy and Kirsten, Seth and Summer?"

"They went out; Kirsten was going to help Summer register for the baby shower, and Sandy was going to help Seth look at cribs or high chairs. Something like that."

She feels him stiffen, almost, at the mention of cribs, and she rubs one of her hands gently along his shoulder. She deepens the kiss for just a second, before breaking from him to get a plate for her waffle.

She nearly drowns it in syrup as she sits at the table, and she has to laugh as he sits down next to her, his own waffle smeared with some butter and nothing else. "You're just like Iz," she says softly, and he raises his eyebrows, surprised to hear her mention Isobel.

"Yeah, well, too much of that rots your teeth, you know," he says, nodding to the maple syrup but still smirking a bit to let her know he's kidding.

"Oh, shut up, it's not like I'm drenching every meal with it."

"That one's pretty soaked. And I thought you couldn't make breakfast?"

"Never said I could. They were Eggos. Iz used to say too much syrup snuffed out the taste of the waffle."

"Smart girl."

"Hey. I object to that; you saying I'm not smart?"

"I'm saying you're not enlightened about the simplicity of a waffle and butter."

"Boring."

"Unwilling to try new things," he corrects her, pointing his fork at her accusingly.

Somehow they end up covering the extra waffles in butter and syrup, respectively, and she's sitting with her feet in his lap, spooning bites of their waffles into each other's mouths. She's beginning to appreciate the somehow luxurious feeling of butter melting in her mouth when there's a knock at the door, and Ryan gets up to go get it. She pouts a bit at the intrusion and reaches for the fork to finish off the last of the buttered waffle.

She looks up when Ryan seems to be leading someone into the kitchen. Not having paid much heed to the muffled conversation that had taken place once he'd opened the door, she's surprised to see her father—really shouldn't be, once she thinks about it, since he'd told her he'd be coming in a few days—and stands up so fast she bangs one of her legs hard against the underside of the table. She ignores the pain, darting to Jimmy and throwing her arms around him, squeezing tight.

"You came!" she says softly, not exactly sure why that's a surprise, but in the back of her mind, she knows. Part of her is still so afraid that one of these days, Jimmy Cooper will decide to give up on his damaged daughter. She knows it's senseless—no matter how badly the Cooper family had fallen apart during her high school days, Jimmy would never give up on her of all people—but it still lingers, gnawing.

"Of course I came." Jimmy kisses her cheek and then steps out of the hug, taking her shoulders and holding her at arm's length to inspect her. "Pajamas aside, you look great, sweetheart."

"I feel great," Marissa says softly, knowing it's a cliché, but honestly meaning it. It's more than just the great waffles and reuniting with Summer and being with Ryan—it's the feeling that she's really _living_ again, after six months as a veritable ghost. "Amazing, actually."

"Well, that's good to hear, because I'm supposed to give you this." Jimmy reaches into his jacket pocket and produces an envelope, handing it to her. "There's a New Year's party over at the Mariott. Someone got word of you being back and sent out an invite. Your mother asked me to give it to you."

"You've seen Mom?" Marissa's expression falters some. She's still not quite sure how she's supposed to face Julie Cooper.

"Briefly, just now. I went to see Kaitlin before I came here."

Ryan quietly excuses himself to clean the plates and the waffle iron, and she mouths a _thank you_, glad to have some time alone with Jimmy. Him getting to know Ryan will come in time, she knows. Right now, she needs to ask him about the most important thing: their family.

"How long are you staying?" she asks as they sit down at the Cohens' kitchen table, reaching up to pat down her hair. She realizes now that she probably should have brushed it.

"At least for the next few days. Kirsten told me you'd be staying through the New Year."

She nods in assent. "How was Kaitlin?"

"She seemed like she's doing well; didn't have much time to talk to her. She was surprised when I said you were here."

_Damn_. Julie hadn't said anything, then. She had wanted to call Kaitlin and tell her, but she hadn't talked to her sister beyond birthday calls in years. They'd drifted once Marissa had moved to New York, and she isn't so certain that Kaitlin will forgive her as easily as Summer has.

"You know she wants to see you," Jimmy says after a silence. "She missed you, Marissa."

"When Mom let her miss me," Marissa cuts in. "You know she's hoping she won't see me."

"Your mother would love it if—"

"If she wanted me to see me, Dad, she would've asked me years ago. She would've let me come back in the first place."

Jimmy seemingly can't argue, and she runs her fingers through her hair before going for broke. "Have you heard from Will? Katie?"

He doesn't want to answer. She can tell that much. His hands are fidgeting from one position to another and finally he looks up at her. "They're not doing well. I'm sure you figured that much."

She wonders if their guilt is anything like hers. She can't imagine how hard it must be, to be a parent who's lost a child—though she's gotten a better sense of it than she would have thought, being with Ryan—but she can't imagine anyone else feeling the awful weight of being there, finding Isobel's body cold and lifeless in her bed.

"Do you think they'd—" She trails off before she finishes the sentence, realizing that none of the options seem realistic. Forgive her? How could they ever? Isobel had killed herself under Marissa's watch. Want to talk to her again? Fat chance. She's not quite sure she wants to see them again, either. But why would she ask, if she didn't want to? She's not sure she entirely understands herself anymore.

"To be honest with you, Marissa, they're… hostile, that's the best word for it, I guess." Jimmy winces, seemingly at how callous it sounds. "I don't think they'd be open to seeing you."

As much as she tries not to think about it, she can still hear Katie screaming at her on the phone, can remember her saying not to even think about coming to the funeral, that she was as good as dead to them now, too. She remembers Jimmy flying straight out to New York after the funeral in Florida, remembers him finding her in her living room red-eyed and strung out on little sleep and no food for almost three days, cried dry and staring mindlessly at one of those infomercials about knives so sharp they'd cut anything.

She remembers thinking one of those knives seemed like a good idea, before she'd shoved the thought away and refused to entertain it again. She didn't want to go back to those same feelings she'd had at sixteen, those thoughts that if she just took a few too many pills, all those problems would go away. It had never worked with pills or alcohol, so why would it work with a knife?

She realizes she hasn't spoken in at least a few minutes, that Jimmy is looking at her with outright worry, and she offers him a strained smile. "I should, um… I guess I'll have to go shopping if I'm going to go to this party. I might… do that today, actually, so…"

Jimmy picks up on her awkward attempt to shoo him out, because he gets up and comes close enough to hug her, kissing her forehead and promising to see her sometime soon, whether at the party or if he comes out to New York. She hugs him back and tries to pretend that it doesn't feel the same as it did months before, when Jimmy was a father trying so hard to keep his daughter from falling apart.

It doesn't feel quite that bad, but she's afraid to admit that it feels damn close.

* * *

When Ryan finds her, she's back in the pool house, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the Christmas lights the Cohens have strung around the outside. She's made no effort to change out of her pajamas, and her hair is still a mess.

He sits beside her almost warily, not wanting to talk and jar her out of her thoughts, but he allows himself a hand on her shoulder, a tentative comfort. When she speaks, her voice is distant, and her eyes are still fixed on the Christmas lights.

"It was so dark. I mean, it was two in the morning; I don't know what I was expecting. But it was dark. So everyone in the neighborhood woke up when the ambulance pulled up outside. The sirens were one thing, but the lights—that was how I knew they'd arrived. Blue and red lights reflecting in the windows. Everyone was gathered around outside, wanting to know if I was okay. No one thought twice about it maybe being Isobel. Not until they brought her body out."

He can't just settle for a hand on her shoulder. He puts his arm around her, tighter than he would have normally, pressing her against him and wishing he could get rid of the distance in her voice, bring her back to the present with a kiss and a reassurance that she's not there anymore, not back in the darker days. But he knows it doesn't work that way, so he stays silent still, rubbing his fingers along her arm and listening.

"I guess she was right," Marissa's saying. "No one really thought twice about her after all. They were all so relieved I was okay—physically—that at first they realize Isobel wasn't. They didn't really know her. I guess I didn't, either, because I didn't… I never thought she'd…"

She's breaking now, he thinks. Her voice is wearing out and she's close to crying, and when she finally looks in his direction, she's seeing him, not looking through him instead of at him. She burrows her head into his chest and he can't say he minds—anything he can do for her is something he wants to do, at this point. He lays them back on the bed and she doesn't protest, letting one of her arms rest across his upper body, her fingers splayed on his chest.

"I didn't want to feel like this anymore, Ryan," she says almost weakly, and he can feel a few tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt. It's enough to make him move his hand from her shoulder to her hair, twining his fingers into it, mess and all, and stroking gently. "I thought I was—I thought I was past this and one conversation about her parents was enough to bring it all back. I don't…"

She wants to say _get it_, but Ryan is quicker than she is, finally speaking. "You _haven't_," he corrects her gently. "Not that I'm one to talk. But you've never really said much about her, Marissa. Besides that first night, and when you found the pills… you've been so focused on making sure I'm all right that you forget about _you_."

She knows he's right, but not sure if she has to like it or not. She hates talking about those days after Isobel, because she hates what it makes her feel. But Ryan's been so open with her that she knows it will be hard to deny him the same courtesy. She'll have to, eventually, but not now, not now when she feels wrung out and almost empty, like she can't feel anything else today.

"I think I want to go to the party," she says finally. She'd been telling Jimmy a white lie earlier about the shopping—at that point, the party had been the last thing she'd wanted to do. Now, she realizes that she wants to go, that she _has _to go in order to prove to herself that she can. She wants to try and re-ingratiate herself with Newport society, to see if she can manage that despite her mother's still-domineering presence.

Ryan is quiet still, his fingers still rubbing at her arm, and when she looks up, she sees a doubtful sort of look in his eyes. She wonders if he ever really got comfortable with Newport society. "I'd like it if you came," she says softly, and she hates the note of pleading that creeps into her voice. She'd hate to force him, but she'd lose her nerve if she had to go it alone.

His lips brush the top of her head and he's whispering "okay."

She knows he's saying it in response to her asking him to come, but as his thumb brushes the lingering tears away from her cheeks, she begins to feel like it just might be.

* * *

Ryan is reluctant to leave Marissa, but she assures him that she's only going shopping, that she'd like to be alone for a bit. She'd seemed less distant, more stable, and he'd figured she'd be all right.

She'd left for the mall a half hour before—Summer had picked her up once she'd gotten back—and after he gets dressed for the day, he tells himself that he can't stay in the pool house for much longer. It's boring, for one, and for another, he has to see Seth and he knows it.

He's felt guilty about putting it off, but he's never been great with words, and he has no great desire to be fumbling for what to say around Seth. He doesn't want to bungle his words and make it seem like he isn't happy, because he is, but the happiness is tempered with some sadness and he knows he won't be able to deny that.

He finds Seth in the same old bedroom, reading not a comic book but one of those parenting books he can remember Jenna having around, the ones he'd quickly banned her from reading once she got to the sections about the pregnancy horror stories or the parenting nightmares. (He'd read a couple chapters himself before the diagrams had been enough to turn him off completely.)

"Nothing from the mall?" he asks, more to announce his presence than anything, but also out of some curiosity—he sees no bags around.

"Bad luck to make purchases before the baby's born," Seth offers, and Ryan remembers—the Cohens had been more than grateful to throw a shower for Jenna, but Sandy had insisted on observing the Jewish tradition on this one and not giving any gifts. "Dad thinks layaway's a good solution for now."

"Sounds like it." He's standing in the doorway still, and the silence that falls is awkward enough that he has to break it again. "Listen, if you thought I wasn't—excited—a few nights ago…"

"We never expected you to…" Seth has to stop for a few minutes to think over what he wants to say, and it's one of those times when it hits Ryan how different Seth has been these past few years. Their relationship had changed after the accident—Seth couldn't joke; Ryan couldn't laugh. Seth was more careful about what he said.

"It was enough to have you here, man," Seth says finally, a bit awkwardly. _There_ it was—a bit of the old Seth coming through. "My mom didn't think you were coming at all, and Summer wanted to call Marissa… it's good to have you both back."

There are things he could say—things he wants to say, wants to ask. He wants to know if Seth had felt the same way he had once Jenna had told him—that rush of excitement, stronger than almost anything he'd ever felt, tempered with so much nervousness he could barely cope. He wants to know if Seth struggles, as he had, with the idea of being a good father—the good father he'd never had until Sandy, the one Seth had always had.

But those topics are too weighty, too emotional, not what he wants to start with, not when they are just figuring out how and where to tread around each other. Those questions can wait.

"You're going to push for naming the kid Luke Skywalker, aren't you?" he says, trying to joke as he knows Seth would have in the past. The smile he would've really had to hunt for the past few years comes so easily it stuns him.

"Summer was resisting but now she's coming around—I was thinking Han Solo, but a German name's problematic…"

* * *

"Coop, I'm…" Summer fumbles for words. Not finding them, she reaches out to take Marissa's hand, squeezing it, before she settles on, "… sorry you had to go through that. I really am."

Talking about what had happened to Isobel for the second time that day wasn't easy, but Marissa's at least glad to have said it, to have it out of the way. They're sitting in the Cohens' driveway, their purchases from earlier piled in the backseat. It's hardly where she'd imagined the conversation taking place, but after baring it all to Ryan earlier, she knew today was the day to tell Summer. She has to take Ryan's advice, has to work on getting herself through it.

She gives Summer a weak smile, a thanks for the support, and squeezes her hand right back. "It's hard, but Ryan's been a big help. He gets it, you know? Not saying that you don't, but—"

"No, no." Summer waves her free hand in dismissal. "I _don't_ get it. It's good that you have Ryan, Coop. And that he has you. I'm really happy for you two, if I didn't say that on Christmas."

"Thanks, Sum. For listening. And for everything else." Marissa leans over and hugs her, before casting a glance at the backseat and then out the back window, to the house next door. Waiting. She can't stall much longer and she knows that, but she's not sure she can face her mother in a way that won't end in tears.

She has to remind herself of why she wants to go over there: because Kaitlin deserves that much. Because she misses her sister. Because, even if she doesn't want to admit it to herself, part of the reason losing Isobel had hurt so much was because she'd lost the chance to be that sort of big sisterly figure again, in a way she'd never much been able to with Kaitlin, after she'd been sent off to the recovery center.

She reaches over to open the car door, asking Summer if she wouldn't mind bringing the bags inside. She nods a bit to the house next door, and Summer gets her meaning, saying she'll see her later and getting out herself, taking the bags from the backseat and carrying them inside.

Marissa gets out of the car, burrowing her hands into her jean pockets and walking down the Cohens' driveway and along the sidewalk to her old home. For a few seconds, she stands at the edge of her family's driveway—where she'd been standing the first time she'd seen Ryan, and then when she'd thought she was seeing him for the last time, when Sandy drove him back to Chino. It's enough to make her realize that she still feels much the same—that he's one of the most intriguing people she's ever met, that she doesn't want to lose him if she can help it.

She tells herself not to linger any longer, that stalling isn't going to make seeing Kaitlin any easier. So she walks up the driveway, knocking on the door and waiting for someone to answer—actually, waiting for Kaitlin to answer, because there's no way she wants to see Julie.

Her luck has run out, she learns quickly, because Julie's the one to open the door. Julie is the one to give her a critical glance and say nothing but, "Marissa. You're here."

"Mom." For some reason, Marissa hates calling her that, especially to her face. With her dad, she really tries—he works hard to keep the peace between them; she hates hurting him by letting on to how much she still struggles with Julie—but this is the first time she's seen her mother in quite a few years, and she doesn't have to like it. "I wanted to see Kaitlin."

"She doesn't want to see you."

"You haven't even talked to her, have you?" Marissa protests, an edge creeping into her voice, an anger that's hard to control. "You didn't even tell her I was coming and you probably haven't given enough of a damn to actually talk to her now that she knows—"

"How can you even dare—?"

"I'll _tell_ you how I can fucking dare!" Marissa is halfway through shouting, until she looks past Julie and realizes that Kaitlin is standing at the bottom of the steps, looking at them both (specifically, at Marissa) like she can't believe it, like she wants to get the hell out of Dodge.

Julie follows her gaze and the two of them are about to say something to Kaitlin, but she pushes past the two of them, out the door and onto the porch, peeling down the driveway and out into the street. Marissa's whipping around before she knows it and running after her, ignoring the sound of the door closing behind her and her mother apparently going into the house without another word.

"Kaitlin—_Kaitlin!_" Marissa reaches out and catches Kaitlin's wrist, and her little sister jerks to a stop and turns around. She rips her hand from Marissa's and she's balling her hands into fists, not to hit but out of anger, and Marissa has to hold up her hands and take a step back.

"I just—came to talk—"

"Because you really cared about that for the past twelve years, huh?" Kaitlin snaps, and Marissa winces at the vehemence in her voice, even if she knows she deserves every bit of it.

"I tried," she says, although she knows she really didn't, could have easily said something more during all the birthday calls, could have picked up the phone any damn time she wanted. "Kaitlin, I really wanted to…"

"And now I'm the substitute for Isobel, is that what you're trying to do?" Kaitlin's crossing her arms and finally looking up from the pavement and into Marissa's face.

And Marissa's looking away, blinking and breathing and wrapping her arms around herself against a sudden shivery feeling, because she wouldn't have thought Kaitlin could go _that_ far but apparently they do have that little bit of their mother in common, don't they?

When she looks up, her reaction has softened Kaitlin a bit, and Kaitlin is back to looking at the pavement, scuffing the toe of one sneaker along the asphalt. "'M sorry," she says, flicking her gaze up to Marissa and then back down to the ground. "That was out of line."

"Yeah, it was." There's some bite to that; she can't help it. "That's not what you are to me, Kaitlin. You're my sister, and I should've been there for you, and I wasn't. I'm sorry. I can't make up for the last twelve years, but we can try and start again. That's all I can give you."

Kaitlin doesn't answer right away. "I really wanted to, too, you know. But if Mom had found out, she'd've…"

"I know."

"She does miss you, Marissa. No matter what you think."

"She has an awful way of showing it." Marissa wraps her arms tighter around herself.

Kaitlin steps the smallest bit closer, a truce, and says finally, "I want to talk more. If that's okay."

"That's… great, honestly."

Kaitlin nods, but there's a hint of sadness in her expression. "But not… not for a couple more months. You need to figure yourself out first."

Marissa averts her eyes again, knowing she can't respond to that—isn't it basically the same thing Ryan had said to her hours earlier? And as much as Kaitlin's words had stung, she knew that was at least part of why she'd wanted to get back in touch with her—to mend some of those broken pieces Isobel had left behind.

She nods in agreement, and before she can stop herself, she's reaching out to wrap Kaitlin in a hug, and surprisingly, Kaitlin is hugging her back.

If nothing else, it's a start.

* * *

11:30 PM has hit on New Year's Eve and Ryan is more than reasonably certain Marissa is going to kill him.

Really, it wasn't his fault. He'd had to borrow a suit from Sandy, since just a shirt and tie wasn't going to be enough, and he'd decided to get it dry-cleaned beforehand. The dry-cleaner had been more than happy to take it on short notice, and Ryan had paid him a bit extra to ensure it would be done in time for the party.

He'd gone back to get the suit earlier that evening, only to be given the wrong one, and he'd had to scavenge the depths of the place in order to find it. He'd returned to find Marissa nervous beyond all belief, sitting on the floor of the bathroom with her head resting against the cool wood of the cabinet under the sink.

It had taken some coaxing to get her up and ready for the party, and she'd decided to go along for a bit without him, because, as she'd picked up on, the less time he spent at these things, the more comfortable he was. He thought it was brave of her to go it alone, and he'd kissed her good luck and let her take off with the Cohens.

He was grabbing the keys Kirsten had given him earlier—he'd be driving the Cohens' car there; they'd gone with Marissa in Seth and Summer's car—and heading towards the door of the pool house when it opened in front of him, and he nearly ran into Julie Cooper.

He can't find any appropriate words and so he stands there until Julie speaks. She is standing with her arms crossed over her chest, the caricature of the concerned parent, and he'd laugh if he didn't think that would be very, very unwise.

"Ryan." She says it flatly. "So good to have you in Newport again."

"Good to be here." He says it with as much humor as he can muster, and there is a grain of truth in it. Good has come out of being here. He knows that much.

"We both know why I'm here, so I'm going to skip the small talk. What exactly are your intentions with Marissa?"

It's another moment where he could laugh—because they've suddenly stepped into one of those old movies his mother would watch before she passed out drunk on the couch; this is the line the concerned father always says to the daughter's boyfriend. But he doesn't laugh. No, he would have to be amused for that to happen, and he isn't amused, he's just angry.

"Why do you even care?" he asks, harsher than he normally would, that edge of Chino-born insolence creeping into his voice. "You think you haven't done enough damage the past twelve years?"

"I'm sure you know that Marissa is fragile right now—"

"Not as much as you'd think, and how the hell would you even _know_—"

"Don't tell me I don't know my own daughter," Julie snaps. "Despite what you both think, I care about her and how she's doing. And a relationship with someone like _you_ isn't what she needs at this point in her life."

"Or any other, isn't that what you're saying? It's sure as hell what you said back then."

"I was looking out for her, then and now."

"You call _looking out for her_ sending her to a glorified mental hospital for as long as it was convenient for you, and then keeping her in San Diego after that? Keeping her away from everyone she knew, everyone that would've helped her?"

"I suppose you count yourself among those people."

"You could say that, yeah."

"I won't. Because you're not going to be the one to fix her, Ryan. Kirsten's told me what's happened to you. Two broken halves can't make a whole. You might not think that now, but you will."

"I think we'll be the judge of that, thanks." He's squeezing the keys tighter in his hand and moving past her to the door, because it's nearly 11:45 and the party is ten minutes across town, fifteen with traffic, and Marissa will kill him if he's not there by midnight. "Marissa doesn't need you running her life. She never has. She can make her own decisions, and so can I. Nothing you say is going to change my mind. I'm staying with her."

"And we'll see how long that lasts. Good-bye, Ryan."

He doesn't dignify her with a response, just slips out the door. He runs to the car and prays he has enough time left before midnight.

* * *

It's 11:55 and she's standing alone in a crowded room.

She's checked her watch at least twenty times in the past five minutes, because she'd thought once they hit ten to midnight that he'd be here, because who arrived _that late _to a New Year's party? Summer keeps looking over in a silent _where is he?_ and she keeps shrugging in an equally silent _I don't know_, and she's fidgeting from foot to foot in her heels and waiting, waiting, waiting.

And Ryan is running, running, running, as it takes him an extra few minutes to find a parking space in the jam-packed maze of the hotel's parking lot—the valets are all upstairs, at the party—and he's ripping the keys from the ignition, locking the car, pushing through the glass doors and up the stairs.

11:58, and she's starting to lose hope, thinking maybe she pushed him too hard, maybe he never did want to come to the party, maybe she shouldn't have asked…

11:59, and he can barely breathe—his breath is burning in his chest and his legs are throbbing with the effort of running up the flights of stairs to get to where she is—

Twenty seconds to midnight, and he's pushing through the door, through the crowd, and there she is in the red dress she and Summer had decided was perfect, the one that makes her stand out from everyone else in the room—but even without the bright colors, she would be all he saw.

He rushes to her as the countdown ends, as cheering erupts from the partygoers and people are shouting and hugging and he is doing the same, taking her into his arms and kissing her like the world is ending and she is the last breath of air.

She breaks from him only a few seconds later, the kiss so intense that she can barely breathe, and he's leaning close to her ear and whispering, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to come so late—"

"It's okay. You were just in time." She reaches up to touch his cheek, and the room is so noisy that she wouldn't be able to hear him normally, but he's the only one she's paying attention to. "What happened?"

"Your mother came to the pool house, tried to tell me we're wrong for each other. She doesn't want us together."

"And what did you tell her?" Marissa asks, much softer than normally, because this is when she'll know—if he's as serious about her as she is about him, if he will fight against her mother the way she knows she'll have to, if he's really the person she thinks he is.

"Basically? I told her she could go to hell," Ryan says, and he's laughing and she is, too, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing closer. "I'm not gonna let her get to you, all right? Not to you and not to us."

"Sounds great to me," Marissa whispers, and she kisses him again.

* * *

**Just one last note: if you guys are interested in another RM fic I've written, I posted a short oneshot called _the ships have come to carry you home_ a few nights ago. I've claimed Ryan/Marissa at a Livejournal prompt community where I have to write 100 stories for them, and I'm pretty sure I'm up for the challenge! Some of the prompts will be used in this story; most others will be separate pieces. I'm probably going to post them in an anthology-like format if they get to be too many, and I'll be sure to let you guys know. In the meantime, check it out if you're curious! Cheers!**


	10. Should I Stay

**A/N: Chapter 10 is here! The last chapter was too long, I feel, and I'm sorry if any of you couldn't keep up or found it difficult to read because of it! This one is shorter and more manageable, hopefully. Hope you guys enjoy!**

**"Should I Stay" is a song by Gabrielle.**

* * *

X.

Should I Stay

_Thursday, January 14__th__ through Wednesday, January 20__th__, 2016_

"I literally do not think I can feel any other sensation besides pain."

"You want me to come over there?"

"No, no, it's late; you should sleep soon. Besides, I think I'm past the point of a foot rub being any sort of help, as much as I appreciate the offer." Marissa cradles her phone between her ear and shoulder as she digs her keys out of her purse, unlocking the door to her house and just barely making it into the living room before she collapses onto the couch, groaning slightly with the relief of being off her feet.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Ryan sounds concerned, and she smiles the smallest bit at that, rolling over so she's on her back and repositioning the phone.

"I'm fine. Just tired from being on my feet all day; looking forward to a bath. Preferably a hot one. It's not like I didn't deserve a double shift—spent a whole week away during Christmas, so…"

"They could've at least given you notice beforehand, not just called you this morning."

"Yeah, but it's the way things work, I guess. Sorry about having to cancel." She does feel bad about that. "Maybe tomorrow night? I'll pay for the tickets, make up for it."

"Only if you're up to it—"

"Ugh, Ryan, I'm a big girl. Being on my feet for all of today isn't going to have me incapacitated still by tomorrow night." She tries for annoyance, but really all she's doing is laughing. "I'll be fine. And again, don't even think about coming over. You need to get more sleep."

She finally gets up, heading into the bathroom to start the bathwater running and getting undressed. She sets her cell phone on the sink counter, putting it on speaker so she can keep talking. The intimacy of him knowing she's in the bath doesn't bother her. She actually thinks it's nice.

She twists her hair up into a knot—the bath is really just for her sore muscles; she has no energy to wash her hair—and wades in, taking the phone with her and being careful to keep it away from the water. "Anything exciting today?" she asks, wanting to get the conversation onto him—she'd called him as she left the diner, wanting to talk to him on her walk home. It's not a particularly long walk, since the place is just down the road, but she likes having him to talk to, especially since her shifts this week have kept her from seeing him.

"I sketched some," he admits, after a silence. "First time in a while."

"Since before the accident?" she asks, quiet and sympathetic, because it's easier to say things like that now, to know when to say something and when not to. The change in his breathing lets her know the answer; he doesn't have to say anything more.

"I'm glad," she says softly. "I know it's something you loved. Have you thought about restarting your business?"

"Kirsten's offered before to put me in touch with people out here. I've just…"

She waits for him to finish, shifting so that more of her body is submerged under the water.

"I've been wondering if it might not be a bad idea to go back home," he finishes, and she realizes that she thinks the same way—that _home_ is not quite here, in New York, but in California.

"Soon?" she asks, though there's another question on her mind: does he want her to go, too?

"Not tomorrow or anything, but in a couple months. I mean, with Seth and Summer having a kid, I'd… like to be around. I'm sure you would, too."

She nods, realizes he can't see, and says, "Yeah. I would. I hadn't… realized how much I missed it back there."

"I could tell." They sit in silence for a while, and she closes her eyes to listen to his breathing on the other end of the line. "Hey, Marissa?" he asks once a few minutes go by.

"Yeah?"

"I got a call from Claire earlier today." It takes her a second to place the name, and then she remembers—Claire McKeever, his former mother-in-law. "She and Toby are thinking of flying out later this week. We didn't get all that much time to talk, and she wants to see more of me. And you, if you're okay with that. She said she liked you."

"Yeah, after seeing me for two seconds." Marissa laughs softly—Claire seems like a nice woman. She'd liked her, too. "I'd like to see more of her."

"I'll give her a call, then. And if I didn't say it at Christmas… it means a lot to me that you're open to meeting them. I know it must be awkward—"

"Hey. Anything to help you out, you know that," Marissa says softly. "Listen, I think I need to get to sleep, so…"

"… so I'm holding you to that date tomorrow. 'Night, Marissa."

"Don't stay up sketching all night, you hear me?" she gently chides him, and the soft chuckle she hears makes her smile. "'Night, Ryan."

* * *

The next night finds her on her couch with Ryan, drowsing in his arms after a glass of wine. He'd picked them up a bottle on the way home from the movie, and even though she'd sworn to him yesterday that she wouldn't be too worn out for their date, she realizes now how exhausted she is from the work week.

"I almost never use this couch anymore," she murmurs against his shoulder. "Besides last night, after work… the last time was when you told me about Jenna and Cody."

He strokes his fingers along her arm, and she sighs. "This is where Iz and I used to be on Wednesdays. Movies, takeout, ice cream… we used to talk here all the time. It just felt… too weird without her. This is where I was sitting when my dad came… after."

"He was really there for you, huh?"

She nods. "More than anyone else. He never judged. Isobel might've been his niece, and he loved her, but he never made it seem like losing her was my fault. Not like Will and Katie."

"It's not your fault. Never was." Ryan gently tilts her face up to his. "You know that. Don't you?"

"Not always." She sighs and burrows closer. "I miss her, Ryan."

"I know."

"I thought… I thought that if I could just talk to Kaitlin and make up with her, it would get easier. She was right to tell me off. I shouldn't have thought I could use her like that."

"Maybe it wasn't, but don't be so hard on yourself. You still made the effort to talk to her. You did good." He lightly touches her nose and she opens her eyes enough to look at him as she gives him a smile. He brushes his lips against hers and they sit in comfortable silence until she says, with a soft smirk, "Iz tried to set me up once."

He gives her a quizzical glance. "Really."

"Yeah. I think she just wanted me out of the house, to be honest. I took off work for a while after she first got here, stayed around the house most days to make sure she was settling in. I know it got on her nerves after a while, because she started finding places to go around town. There was this bookstore she liked, and the owner was maybe thirty-five? She dragged me in there one day and made me talk to him, and she must've told him what to say, because I ended up liking him enough to say yes when he asked me out."

"And did it go well?"

"Not at all." She laughs, and he kisses her forehead, just because. "I asked him what he liked about running a bookstore, and he started going on and on about how it didn't bring in enough money, so he played the stock market on the side. He started telling me about it during the appetizer… and he didn't stop until the waitress brought dessert. Which he ordered, by the way; didn't even give me a choice. I mean, it's not like I couldn't talk stocks; my dad taught me about finances when I was a kid… but God, the guy did not know when to shut up."

"What did Isobel think?"

"It was actually the first time we really _talked_. She was waiting for me to come home and we ended up sitting here on the couch, eating ice cream and making fun of the guy. Turned out she wasn't a big fan of his, either; just thought he was close enough to my age that setting me up with him wouldn't have been weird. Even with the date going badly, it was just… a great night. It broke the ice for me and her." She pauses, finally saying, "I haven't… talked about her like that before. Not even to my dad. It's… nice."

She's told him about Isobel before, but never like this, never with more laughter and smiles than pain. "It was good to hear you talk about her. Not to push you or anything, but... try it more often. It's nice to see you smiling."

"Look who's talking, mister." She leans up to kiss him, saying softly, "You've got yourself a deal."

* * *

Fortunately enough, Sunday is Marissa's day off, and she's so grateful she could cry—three straight days of long hours to make up for the vacation has given her the right to be off during the always stressful Sunday morning rush. She ends up grateful for one other thing: being off on Sunday lets her be there for Ryan when he needs her.

She sleeps over Saturday into Sunday. Since they'd returned from Newport, they'd stayed over at each other's places one or two times apiece. Having gotten used to a sort of living arrangement in the pool house, the habit was difficult to shake. Ryan had called her Saturday night and asked her if she wanted to stay, and she knew from the way he said it that he just needed her to. She'd grabbed the small duffel bag with toiletries, pajamas, and a change of clothes that she'd kept packed for these occasions and went straight over.

He tells her when she gets there McKeevers are flying out the next day, that he wanted her around so the bed wouldn't feel so empty with just him. She gets what he means. Ever since Newport, she's started feeling like she wants _more_. She hasn't made any truly momentous moves just yet, but she finds herself wanting to, and soon.

Marissa wakes up alone on Sunday morning, and a trip downstairs reveals that Ryan's on the couch with his laptop, watching a video, it looks like.

As she comes closer, carefully sitting beside him, she realizes it's not Youtube or any news site. She hears Ryan's voice, Ryan's laugh. _"Come on, he's not nearly old enough to be talking yet."_

"_I refuse to believe that he does not somehow have some Cohen genes by association. Ryan, I've been to the holidays with you. They do nothing _but_ talk. Now, if he had _your_ genes—"_

"—_which he should, seeing as I'm his father—"_

"—_he wouldn't be talking at all, I'm sure."_

"_You said you liked me being quiet."_

"_Only because it helps me win the arguments, Ryan. Only because."_

"She was pretty," Marissa says quietly, resting a hand on Ryan's thigh to let him know she's there. When he looks at her, she nods to the screen of his laptop, where the video playing shows him and Jenna. Jenna's cooing at Cody in an effort to make him mimic her, although he looks only a few months at most, and, like Ryan had said, not ready to talk just yet. "I don't know if I ever said that; I meant to. I can see what made you notice her."

"She was." He smiles faintly and goes to close the laptop, but she catches his hand.

"I'd… I'd like to see some of them. If you're okay with that, I mean."

He nods, after a moment, and she curls against him as he plays her some of the videos, telling her the stories behind some, letting others stand on their own. He's smiling, she realizes. When she reaches out her hand, he takes it, and she kisses his shoulder softly even through the t-shirt. She likes seeing him like this—even if he's not talking, he's being open in a way she'd thought she wouldn't see the month before, when he'd nearly driven them off the road, when he'd been spending most of his nights drinking at a bar or at home.

He goes to pick up the McKeevers late that afternoon, and she stays at his place so she can be there to welcome them. She picks up a few things, does their dishes from that morning, fixes a few errant ornaments on the still-up Christmas tree.

He'd told her the house was hers to explore, though there isn't much ground they haven't covered by now. Still, she knows one place he's never showed her, and she decides she wants to look.

There is a bedroom next to Ryan's whose door is always shut. The air is mostly stale and a little too hot, so she leaves the door open after she enters, flicking on a light switch as she passes.

She nearly knocks into it before she realizes what Ryan uses the room for. Storage, she'd assumed, but then she's putting her hands out to stop herself from walking into the metal structure, bracing herself against it and taking a look. She realizes from the paper tacked to the sloping-upwards surface of the table that it's an architect's table.

Ryan had been sketching a cityscape, she notices; it's dated the 14th, the night of their conversation. The drawing is _good_, too. She wishes she could see some of the buildings he'd planned, back in Newport—she'll have to ask him to show her pictures when he's ready, or maybe even to take her there, once they go back.

She realizes that her thinking has shifted, that there are no longer any _if_s when it comes to her and Ryan—that it's _when_ they'll go back to Newport, that they'll do it together. She can't see a future without him, knows it's dangerous to think that way. She knows now that lives can be lost so quickly, in one shattering instant. Even if she knows it's foolhardy, she can't quell the thought that she has a future with Ryan. That she _wants_ a future with Ryan.

Marissa explores the flat surface underneath the sloped part, just skimming her fingers along it as she goes to look out the window, but when her fingers hit against something that feels like cardboard, she picks it up, curiously. It's a card, she realizes, a standard _Congratulations!_ card you'd get at a Hallmark or a local pharmacy. She opens it and reads the message within.

_If you're going to be an architect, you're going to have to have the right tools. And I kind of want to reclaim the kitchen table. So here's to your future, love. I know you'll do great._

_Happy anniversary, Ryan._

_xx. Jen_

She sets the card back where she found it, leaning against the windowsill and smiling faintly, though there's no one else in the room to bear witness to it—just the dust in the air and the faint beams of sunlight filtering in through the frosted window.

"You really loved him, huh?" she asks softly, even if she knew it from the way he'd talked about her, knew it even more once she'd seen the videos. "I can see it. How much he loved you, I mean. Every day, even if he doesn't mean me to. And God, I love him for it. For not… forgetting. I get so scared of forgetting her sometimes and he's… he's held onto you. Maybe not in the best ways, sometimes, but he's getting better."

She never does this, not even when she's thinking of Isobel, because she's still not sure what she believes, if she thinks there's another life past this one. She wants to believe that if there is, Jenna's listening. If she loved Ryan even half as much as he loved her (and it's so obvious she did; she'd seen the proof just seconds ago), she'd be listening.

"He's getting better," she repeats softly, a certain pride in her voice, a hope. She'd really like for Jenna to know that, wherever she is. "I'm proud of him for that. I'm sure you are, too."

She gives the room one last look before she steps out, turning off the lights and closing the door behind her.

* * *

Tuesday night, Marissa is working, so Ryan offers to take the McKeevers out for dinner himself. Sunday night and Monday night had been spent with Marissa, getting them better acquainted, and she had taken Claire shopping earlier that day. From what Ryan had seen, they were getting on like a house on fire, talking like old girlfriends even with the age difference. He'd never understand female bonding, so he accepted it for the great thing he could assume it was.

Midway through the dinner, Claire excuses herself to take a phone call—some family problem with her sister's kids; whatever it is, it's important—and he sits with Toby, conversing easily. He'd been surprised at how simple it had been to go back to talking with his in-laws. They didn't hold anything against him, and he felt guilty for not keeping in touch. Some things were left unsaid, but they would be approached in time. For now, he was trying to build their relationship back up from the ground.

"Claire and I like your girl," Toby says as Ryan butters a roll. "I'm sure Claire mentioned it—hard not to, way they've been talking—but I wanted to say it myself. She's great."

"She'll be glad to hear it. She was nervous about seeing more of you, wasn't sure if you'd like her."

"Well, Claire's certainly found something to like; so have I. She makes you smile, kid." Toby takes a sip of his beer, regarding Ryan steadily over his glass. "Haven't seen that in a long time."

Ryan looks down for a moment, smiling at the mere mention of her, staring at the flounder he'd ordered before he looked back up at Toby. Toby sets down his glass and Ryan finally decides to say it—he's been waiting to broach the subject, would want to do it with Claire around as well, but he doesn't want to lose his nerve.

"I've been thinking about moving back to Newport," he says, and some surprise makes it into Toby's expression, although it seems to be a pleasant kind. "Being back there for the holidays… it reminded me of how much I used to love it there. Marissa, too. My brother and his wife, they're having a baby, and Marissa and I want to be around. I could get back to the business, and see more of you and Claire, if you'd… like that."

He doesn't know why he hesitates on that—residual nervousness, maybe. "It wouldn't be right away; we'd have to discuss it, but… it's something I've been considering. I wanted to know how you felt."

Toby doesn't hesitate. "Son, I think it would be great. For you and for her, if she loves it there as much as you do. You know Claire and I would love to see you more often—same with the Cohens, I'm sure. But it's up to you to decide, kid. We wouldn't push you. You've just got to do what you think is best."

_Best_. It's a word that echoes through his mind the rest of the night, after he's dropped the McKeevers back at their hotel and called Marissa after getting home, after he hangs up after saying good night to her, after he shuts off the light and lays in the dark, staring at the ceiling he can't see and rolling the word around in his thoughts, considering.

_Best_. Two years ago, he would have said _best_ was the family he'd had, the life he'd built in Newport.

_Best_. One year ago, he would have said _best_ was the numbness, the loss of feeling in his head, his empty hands, his heart, as he drank his feelings so he could pretend they weren't there.

_Best_. Now, he would say _best_ is the hope—the hope for something more, the hope at gaining back the love he'd lost. That hope rests with Marissa—he's known that for quite some time now.

Someday soon, he'll let her know it.

* * *

They all have one last dinner at Ryan's on Wednesday night, before the McKeevers fly back on Thursday. Marissa helps clear the table, and even when Ryan insists she shouldn't have to, she starts to do the dishes anyway, just because. He actually likes doing the dishes, does them far too often in her opinion, so she takes over whenever she can, to even the score.

Claire brings in the utensils and plates from the dessert, putting them in the sink for her and picking up a dish towel to dry the plates Marissa had set on the drainer board. "It was nice of you to volunteer, dear, but I'm sure Ryan would like you back out there."

"I don't mind; I don't think he does, either. Besides, once the conversation gets onto sports, I'm as good as lost," she says, and Claire laughingly agrees.

"It was nice spending time with you this week," she puts in as she passes Claire another dish, squirting soap onto one of the dessert forks and then scrubbing. "I really enjoyed getting to know you."

"I felt the same, dear. So kind of you to help Ryan show us around, too. Ryan mentioned you were nervous about seeing us—I hope you don't feel the same still?"

"I don't," Marissa laughingly reassures her. "Never could, not after how great you've been to me, this week and at Christmas. I've actually liked seeing Ryan when he's with you. He's been telling me more about Jenna, and she… it seems like she was a wonderful person. I can see where she got it from."

Claire smiles, a little tearily, Marissa thinks. She reaches out and puts a hand gently on Marissa's arm, and Marissa sets down the dessert plate she'd been washing and shuts off the water to give Claire her full attention.

"You've been so good for him, dear," Claire says gently. "From what we've seen, and what we've heard from the Cohens… can you promise me something?"

"Of course."

"Keep looking after him? I know he puts on that stoic act, but he needs someone more than anyone thinks. From the looks of it, you're that someone he needs. I hope to see more of you two together in the future."

"Trust me," Marissa says softly, "so do I."


	11. I and Love and You

**A/N: Hi, all! As you can see, I think I'm getting on at a decent clip, because Chapter 11 is here!**

**For those of you who are interested, my friend Caitlin and I collaborated on a fanmix for this fic. She made the cover art, which is gorgeous; I picked the songs. Some of them are the ones that really inspired me as I worked on the early chapters of this fic; others are ones that will mean something later on. I really hope you guys choose to listen to it; the download link is on my profile.**

**"I and Love and You" is a song by the Avett Brothers.**

* * *

XI.

I and Love and You

_Saturday, February 13__th__ through Monday, February 15__th_

"You're going to tell him, aren't you? You're going to say it."

She can hear it in Summer's voice—a barely contained squeal of excitement. She rolls onto her other side on the bed and frowns at the unoccupied space next to her, wishing she was actually _with _Summer instead of just on the phone with her. When they'd been kids, all the way into their teen years, they'd had dozens of conversations like this, about boys and love and what they thought sex would be like, either lying in Marissa's bed or Summer's.

"How'd you know?" she asks, even if she'd known Summer _would_ know, had called her just to hear she wasn't crazy. "I mean, do you think I should—"

"Of course! Coop, I don't know why you even have to ask—"

"Because it's not like this is the easiest thing in the world for us," Marissa cuts in, not wanting to be rude, but needing to say it. "Sum, you know what he's been through. Something like this is… big. He might not want to say it yet."

"He said he wanted you to come back to Newport with him. Right?"

"He said he thought I might want to. There's a difference."

"Not much of one. Coop, if he even mentioned it, if he's even thought about the possibility… he loves you. You know that."

She closes her eyes as Summer says it, trying to reconcile herself to the thought. She knows how _she_ feels, but she's not sure about Ryan, even if she knows, somewhere deep down, that Summer could be right.

It had started a little after that day in Ryan's home office, when she'd "talked" to Jenna. _I love him for it,_ she'd said. She'd thought more about that as she fell asleep in Ryan's bed while she waited for him to return from taking the McKeevers to the airport. _I love him for it_, she realized, had turned into _I love him_.

In the weeks since then, she's struggled. _Love_. It isn't something she can admit to so easily. She hates to think it, but she's never done this before. The only serious relationship of her teen years had been Luke, and there'd been no thought of love with him. After the recovery center, keeping her head down and getting out of California had been her prime goal. She'd had relationships, sure—not very many, and never lasting much longer than a month or two. No one had ever, say, met her father, or gotten a key to her apartment.

She's never said _I love you_. It has never bothered her until now. Now, all she can think is that she's nearly thirty (_twenty-eight_, that part of her that inherited Julie Cooper's resistance to aging insists) and has never been in a serious relationship until now.

"What if I lose him, Sum?" she asks quietly, hating the pathetic note that creeps into her voice. "I mean, we've only been together two and a half months. I just… I can't help but feel like I could scare him away. And I don't know where that would leave me."

"Marissa." Summer's using her first name, so she knows to listen. "You two have been through more in two and a half months than most people have to deal with in years. Maybe you didn't go through it all together, but you're helping each other deal with it, you know? If he tells you the things I'm sure he does, he trusts you. If he wants a future with you… he loves you, Coop. Trust me."

She doesn't want to sit in silence to think about it while Summer's on the phone, so she resolves to think about it later and decides to change the subject. "So you and Seth were supposed to go to the doctor this week, right? How'd that go?"

"We found out the sex," Summer tells her, and again Marissa hears it, that hint of euphoria. She's actually smiling wider than she has in months, she realizes. She's missed her best friend for so long that coming back into her life at such an eventful time is just surreal.

"And? Come on, don't keep me waiting!"

"It's a girl," Summer tells her, and Marissa laughs, nearly yells, so excited.

"That's amazing, Sum!" she manages when she's calmed down, although she's still grinning. "Any idea on a name?"

"We're still debating. Cohen's still set on Leia, I'm telling you…"

* * *

"_For you, there'll be no more crying  
For you, the sun will be shining  
And I feel that when I'm with you, it's all right  
I know it's right…"_

He's sitting on the floor of the home office, back against the wall, eyes closed, listening to the record playing on Jenna's old phonograph, a gift from her mother. He can hear her singing along, if he thinks hard enough. He can feel her taking his hand.

"_Come on, dance with me." She'd yanked him out of his chair as they finished eating the dinner she'd prepared. "You need to listen to something other than Journey, love. Not that they're not great, but Fleetwood Mac can't be beat."_

_He pulled her close and they swayed together, breathing in rhythm. Jenna pressed her lips to his and soon they were kissing breathlessly, and when Jenna broke for air, she murmured, "You're a great dancer, you know that?"_

"_We're not really dancing."_

"_Not really, no. But still. They teach you something at those fancy Newport parties?" she lightly teased._

_And he remembered—just for a second—the days before Cotillion, his hands on Marissa's back…_

"_Yeah, they did," he laughed, because he still remembered. "I love you, Jen."_

"_And I love you, I love you, I love you," Jenna whispered, punctuating each one with a kiss, "like never before."_

He opens his eyes and looks around the office—so empty still, even with his architect's table and the phonograph and Jenna's LPs he'd kept in the closet. He thinks of the week before, during one of the nights Marissa had stayed over.

"_I went into your office," she'd admitted, curled into his arms late that night, eyes closed. "That day you went to pick up the McKeevers… you never told me you had one, and I just wanted to see…"_

"_It's okay," he'd told her, sensing her hesitation, her fear that he'd be angry. He'd never forbidden her from entering, so he couldn't exactly be mad._

"_You're amazing." She'd turned her face up to his and opened her eyes so he'd be sure to believe her. "That drawing… it's really beautiful."_

"_It's rough, you mean. I could've done better if I'd been more in practice."_

"_You will be." She softly kissed his chest. "Ryan?"_

"_Yeah?"_

"_I'm glad you're getting back to what you wanted to do."_

"_Me too. You have no idea."_

"_I… don't really think I do. You're right." She'd pressed a bit closer on that one, and he'd wrapped his arms more tightly around her, waiting. "I can't be a waitress for the rest of my life, you know? I love the diner, I love the regular crowd, but… it's not what I want to do for the rest of my life. I mean, that's obvious. I just… haven't found my way yet, I guess."_

"_You will." He'd said it with the same assurance she'd had when she'd told him he'd practice more. "I'll help you."_

He'd realized, when he thought about it the next day, how easily they talked about their future plans—how easy it was to envision themselves together. It was only natural, right? He loved spending time with her. He loved falling asleep next to her. He loved talking on the phone with her on the nights they couldn't be together.

He just loved her.

It didn't surprise him as much as he'd thought it would. He'd only recently started thinking about falling in love after Jenna, and he'd pictured it differently—a revelation that would come startlingly fast, a surprise, something he would have struggled with.

But the moment, when it came, was calm, unsurprising. He loved Marissa. It seemed like the simplest thing in the world. He looked over at her one morning as she slept next to him and just knew, wondered why he hadn't realized it before.

He wanted to tell her. He'd thought of it that day, had nearly said it when she woke up and said good morning, but he's been afraid of what she'll say. He knows what she feels—he's sure it can't be any different than he does—but what if it's too much too soon?

He doesn't want to think it will be, wants to think she has an idea. They've arranged to have dinner at her place, just to have something a little more intimate than a restaurant. He wants to tell her, wants to hear her say it back.

Claire had called the day before, wanting to see how he was holding up—she'd done the same the past two Valentine's Days, but all he can remember about them is being drunk enough not to pick up the phone. He'd never wanted to face the day before.

It had always been a low-key day for him and Jenna—Jenna never had been the extravagant type—but it had been the same as Christmas for him: the commercials, the cards, the holiday paraphernalia screaming out at him from every store… when he thinks about it, he realizes it was part of the reason he'd stopped grocery shopping. It was easier to ignore the trappings of the holiday if he just didn't go anywhere he'd see them. Or anywhere at all.

He'd realized what this meant: that he was moving on. And while he still felt it sometimes—the urge to remember Jenna, to do exactly what he's doing now in thinking about her—it's not as strong as it used to be, not as overpowering and difficult to cope with. He likes to think that's a good thing.

He'd never wanted to face the day before, but he wants to face it now. He'd said as much to Mrs. McKeever, and he'd heard her softly laughing, had asked her what she thought.

"_Nothing,"_ she'd said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. _"I hope you know it, sweetheart, but if you don't… you're in deep over that girl."_

"_I know it,"_ he'd told her. _"I'm hoping to tell her."_

"_I think she already knows, dear. I think she already knows."_

* * *

"You know, for someone who had barely any food in his place at all a few months back, you're not half bad at this cooking thing," Marissa laughs as she finishes the last of the chicken he'd made.

"You noticed that, huh? I was trying to make sure you didn't."

"When Sandy bought over bagels and nearly every other meal we ate at your place was takeout… it was hard not to notice," she says, gently teasing. "I tried not to say anything, though. It was sweet—you trying to make things look better than they were, for my sake. I appreciated it, even if I didn't say anything." She reaches across the table to put her hand over his, and he puts down his knife so he can wrap his hand around hers.

For a dinner at her place, he realizes, they're perhaps a bit too formal. He's wearing a blue dress shirt, slacks, and a tie; she's wearing a pink party dress. (She's already told him she knows how cheesy it is; she looks so good in it he can't bring himself to care.) There's an increasing nervousness he's trying to push aside, just wanting everything to go well.

He's been trying to figure out the perfect time to say it. Before the meal? He'd decided as he was making it that it was best not to; the conversation that might follow would be better if he wasn't trying not to burn a meal. During the meal? Probably not the best time, either. After, then. He'll do it after.

When they've each eaten the last of the chicken and pasta he'd made them, Marissa helps him load the dishwasher, before they take to the couch for some wine. Since their night on the couch a month before, it's been something they've tried to do every week or so—wine and conversation. He hopes that this time will be a bit different, a bit more distinctive.

Marissa pours, and they lightly clink glasses before she leans in to kiss him, stroking her fingers gently over his cheek. "Happy Valentine's Day, again," she says when she breaks away, smiling. "Don't know if I've said that enough. Thank you, for the dinner and for this." She gestures to the wine, the nice clothes. "It's great, Ryan."

"I'm glad. I wanted it to be."

Marissa folds her legs under her, shifting so she's facing him, and he tries to find the words he wants. "I wanted to… talk to you about something."

"Shoot."

"I know that it's… been an uphill battle for us a lot of the time. Between everything that happened before Christmas, your mom, trying to figure out where both of us are… it's been hard. But I've had you all this time, and I just… wanted you to know how much it meant to me."

"I know." Her fingers tracing his cheek again, softer. "I feel the same way."

"I thought you did." He's hoped she did, anyway. "And I just wanted to say—Marissa, I—"

When the knock on the door comes, Marissa gives him an apologetic look, sighing and getting up, bracing herself carefully against his shoulder for leverage as she leaves the couch. She goes into the main hall to answer the door, fully prepared to tell off some Jehovah's Witness for intruding on her night with her boyfriend, and since when did they come on Valentine's Day anyway—

She'd taken her wineglass with her, seemingly forgetting to put it down, and it's when Ryan hears it hit the floor and shatter than he gets up to check if she's all right, except that he comes up behind her and realizes, without seeing her face, that she really isn't.

"What are you doing here?" Marissa's asking the couple at the door—an older man and woman, and he's not sure who they are, except when he looks at them a little closer, he realizes the man bears a faint resemblance to Jimmy…

_Shit._

"So is this what you were doing when you were supposed to be looking after our daughter?" Katie Cooper asks, and she frees one arm from its tight fold across her chest, gesturing to the broken wineglass and then Ryan. "Drinking and entertaining? Having a different man over each night, setting a great example?"

"_Hey_," Ryan starts, more incensed by the dig at her than the one at him, about to push forward, but Marissa reaches back and twines a shaking hand into his, stopping him.

"It's a holiday," Marissa starts, scrambling for words, and he's never seen her look so cowed, so unnerved. "I don't know what you expected me to be do—"

"How about showing some kind of remorse!" Will is shouting, and when he starts forward, as if to slap her, Ryan pushes Marissa behind him, reflex from so many days when he'd protected his mother. Marissa's fighting to get past him but he holds firm, unmoving.

"You don't even _know_ what I've been feeling!" Marissa's shouting over his shoulder, and he can hear the tears thick in her voice, can feel her nails scrabbling at his arm, outstretched to block her path. "You haven't seen! Probably because you never even let me see her after or come to the _fucking _funeral—"

"Because if it wasn't for you, she wouldn't be in the goddamn _graveyard_!" Katie is practically screaming, and behind him, Marissa sucks in her breath, then another, and out of the corner of his eye he sees her fumbling for the wall, bracing herself against it and trying hard to breathe.

It hurts him to move away from her, to not be able to ask just yet if she's okay, even when he knows she's not—but he finds the strength to move and go to the doorway, using his body to block them from seeing her. "Leave. If all you're going to do is fucking harass her and not even think that she's feeling just as badly about this as you are—"

"_Badly_?" Will Cooper says incredulously, and he grasps a fistful of Ryan's shirt, yanking him closer. "Young man, I don't think you have _any_ idea what it's like to lose a child, so if you'd stop running your fucking mouth—"

Ryan twists from his grip, finally giving into temptation and shoving Will, not hard enough to knock him back but enough to make a point. "I have a better idea than you think I do," he snaps, and he slams the door in their faces.

Marissa's wrecked. He'd known she would be, but it just about breaks his heart to see it firsthand. There's mascara tracked down her cheeks and she's all but hyperventilating, hugging her knees close to her chest.

When he goes to kneel, reaching out to touch her shoulder, she shakes her head, scrambling to her feet. "Don't—"

"Marissa, please—"

Before he can stop her, she runs to the bedroom and slams the door behind her. When he sits with his back to the door, leaning against it and closing his eyes, he thinks he hears the sounds of her crying, harder than before.

This time, he's not sure if he knows what he can do about it.

* * *

After an hour passes, she's pretty sure Ryan's moved from the other side of the door. Her sobs have quieted and she doesn't hear him breathing, shifting around.

When she opens the door, she sees him in the main hall, down on his knees with a dustpan he must've scrounged up from one of the cabinets under the sink. He's placing the glass shards from the broken wineglass into the pan, wiping the spilled wine up with a rag, probably getting dust and dirt on the knees of his slacks. The image makes her want to cry again, for some stupid reason. It's what really makes it sink in that the holiday is ruined.

"Ryan?" Her voice cracks when she speaks, and he starts up, somehow managing to balance the dustpan as he does, taking it into the kitchen and emptying the shards into the garbage. When he's rinsed the dust from his hands, he goes to her, and she grips his hand, pulling him to the bed, a silent indication—_I need you_.

They lay there for a long time in silence, and he wraps his arms around Marissa, stroking her back lightly with one free hand. It's almost cartoonish, the lengths to which this holiday has gone. The dinner, the absurdly pink dress, the tears soaking into his shirt… none of this is how he pictured this day going.

"Hey, Ryan?" Marissa whispers, and she looks up at him, her eyes damp but still managing to focus on his. "What did you want to… say before?"

He looks away, not knowing if he wants to do it—not now. Is this really the memory he wants for them? "Marissa… now's not really the best…"

Her finger at his lips, stopping him. Her voice whispering, "Please…?"

He sighs, leaning his forehead against hers and closing his eyes before kissing her lips, tenderly. He pulls away very slightly, cupping her cheek in his hand. "I love you."

"Thank you," she whispers raggedly, and it's not quite the response he'd wanted, but he doesn't expect anything more, and he holds her even closer to him.

* * *

When she wakes up Monday morning, her body is aching. She opens her eyes and realizes she's curled into a ball, that sleeping that way has left her stiff and sore. The pink dress is wrinkled and probably needs a wash to get the salty tear stains out.

She reaches for her phone as soon as she remembers the night before, even if she can't quite process it. She needs to talk to someone—her father, she thinks. He's the one who talks to Will; he'll know what Will was thinking. He'll know why Will and Katie decided Valentine's Day of all days was a great time to stop by and put her back at square fucking one.

Her father picks up on the second ring. "Marissa. I was going to call you; I wanted to know if—"

"I'm not all right, so don't even." She knows how rude it sounds, but she can't help it.

"I know. I'm sorry, I don't even know why I… I should've called you last night. Will called me after he saw you, practically screaming about you being negligent when you'd had her with you and you not grieving now… Christ, Marissa, I don't know what to tell you. _I_ know what you've been through, and believe me, I've tried to tell them…"

"Why now? Why last night? They've had months before this…"

"Some friends of theirs gave them a trip to New York for the holiday, thought it would help them… they apparently decided they'd rather use the trip to see you. Marissa, I can fly out there if you need me to—"

"No. Ryan's here; he's… he's helping." She swallows hard, grateful for that, at least. "They blame me, Dad."

"I know, kiddo." He sighs, and she can so easily picture him on the other line. He sounds so worn, so tired. She wishes he didn't have to be caught between his brother and his daughter. "It's not your fault, and you know that. Iz would've done what she did even if she'd been with them… you might've even bought her some time. You helped her, you know that."

"I know. It just doesn't feel like it when they fucking throw what she did in my face." She scrubs at her eyes, then closes them. "What are they saying about me, Dad? The rest of the family? That I'm some kind of screwup? I couldn't fix myself, so how did I think I could help Iz?"

"Marissa, no one blames you. No one who's thinking rationally, anyway. Will and Katie are… they're still raw. Like me and your mom were after Tijuana."

Marissa flinches a bit. "I wish they hadn't come," she says quietly, and her voice breaks on _wish_.

"I know, sweetheart. I'm sorry. Just… call me later, all right? I just want to know you're doing all right."

She doesn't bother to say that she doesn't think _all right_ is possible at this point. "I will. 'Bye, Dad," she whispers, and hangs up the phone.

She looks over her shoulder finally, sees Ryan's suit jacket is folded over the chair in the corner, his shoes, watch, tie, and pants resting on or under the chair proper. He must still be around, she realizes. She just wants to find him, be with him.

After she changes into pajamas, she finds him in the kitchen, standing at the toaster in his undershirt and boxers. A half-eaten bagel with cream cheese is on a plate on the table; when she gets closer, she sees that he's removing an egg bagel from the toaster and starting to smear it—her favorite, she realizes. He's making her breakfast.

She thinks of the night before, when he'd been making their dinner. Thinks of wrapping her arms around him as he cooked and kissing his bad shoulder lightly, asking him how it had been holding up lately, feeling grateful when he'd told her he hadn't had any pain. She'd thought things were going well.

She wishes they were still going well.

"Hey," she says quietly, and when he turns, she walks to him, standing close and wrapping her arm around his waist. He kisses her forehead gently, and when she starts talking—"Ryan, I…"—he stops her.

"Don't say it," he tells her gently, and she sighs, burying her head in his chest. "I don't want this to be your memory of saying it, all right?" he says gently. "I don't want that for us. For you."

"I didn't want this to be our Valentine's Day."

"I know." He pulls her closer against him, kissing her head and sighing. "I know."


	12. Fade Out

**A/N: Chapter 12 is here! I'm moving at a good pace lately, and I'm hoping that it will continue; I'd like to get the rest of this fic to you guys on a semi-regular basis! I've also got a sequel in the planning stages and some other RM projects in mine, so you won't be seeing the last of me!**

**"Fade Out" is a gorgeous song by Adam Pascal. It can be found on the fanmix for this fic; as I said last chapter, check out the download link in my profile if you're curious!**

* * *

XII.

Fade Out

_Monday, February 15__th__ to Tuesday, February 16__th_

"We don't have to go, if you don't want to," Ryan tells her, stroking his fingers through her hair. She wonders at how his hand isn't tired by now, considering they've been in this position for hours. "We can just stay here, order in…"

"No, I want to go," she sighs, shifting and finally sitting up. "Might actually help, this week."

"Are you sure?"

"Can't hurt to try."

They've spent most of the day on the couch, Marissa lying with her head in his lap, her feet against one of the armrests. They'd sat quietly for an hour or two, until Marissa had realized that the quiet made her hear it again—Will telling her she didn't have any remorse, Katie saying it was her fault Isobel had died.

She'd turned on the TV, at that point. They'd spent hours watching telenovelas, even though neither of them knows Spanish. They'd picked at a Whitman's Sampler Marissa had gotten a few days before, because the increased supplies of chocolate at all the pharmacies was one of her favorite things about the holidays. She stared at the card Ryan had brought her the day before, so bright and cheery and utterly at odds with her feelings.

She goes into the bathroom to brush her hair and her teeth, but once she's inside she remembers that a few weeks before she'd finally taken Isobel's things and thrown them away. Those tangible reminders of her are gone. The memory of her presence isn't.

"_Marissa?" She heard Isobel call out from the bathroom as she was reorganizing the freezer._

"_Yeah, Iz?"_

"_Do you have any band-aids out there? I think we're out in here?"_

"_I got some when I was shopping; give me two seconds." She shut the freezer door and rummaged in one of the bags until she found the band-aids, going to the bathroom door and knocking before she opened. "What happened?"_

_Isobel was sitting in her robe on the closed lid of the toilet, the shower still running in the background. She dabbed at the blood near her knee on her half-shaved right leg with a piece of toilet paper, laughing a bit. "I am the biggest klutz imaginable when it comes to shaving; nothing huge."_

"_I used to be the same when I was younger. Still happens every once in a while. Here, just apply some pressure for a few minutes until it stops; it'll make it easier to put the band-aid on later." She wadded up some more toilet paper and handed it to her cousin, going to sit on the edge of the tub and turning off the water for the time being. "Getting ready for anything in particular?"_

"_Yeah. Um… some girls in my chem class actually asked me to come out with them, go shopping."_

_This was the first she'd heard of Isobel making friends, and she had to smile. "Iz, that's great! Are you excited?"_

"_Kind of, yeah. But a bit nervous."_

"_About what?"_

"_I… don't really know if I really fit in with them. I mean, I haven't lived here that long; I don't know the boys I'm supposed to be interested in or what I'm supposed to be wearing, or—"_

"_Hey, listen. As someone who's been there, let me give you some advice—it shouldn't matter what _they_ think. What should matter is what _you_ think. If your friends don't approve of the guy you want to date, or whatever, and you do, and you think he's good enough for you… then honestly, screw 'em. Of course, _I _have to approve and that's something else entirely."_

_Isobel laughed, and she looked up at Marissa for the first time, fiddling with the end of her robe's belt. "Do you think you could give me the names of some places around here we could go? I mean, they'll probably suggest a place, but if they ask me to pick I want to be able to name something…"_

_Marissa found herself smiling. She'd never thought Isobel would actually involve her in her efforts to build a social life. It made her happier than she wanted to admit. "Sure. I think I know a couple places; let me make a list for you."_

_After she turned the water back on, she got up to leave, and she heard Isobel call after her on her way out. "Marissa? Thanks for the band-aids…"_

_She heard it—just a bit more emphasis on the word "thanks." Maybe her cousin couldn't really say it yet, but she got the feeling she appreciated the help._

"_You're welcome, Iz. Really."_

She goes through the motions of getting ready mechanically, brushing her hair and teeth without much thought. She redoes her sloppy ponytail and tugs the hem of her sweatshirt down, stalling. She'd insisted on getting dressed earlier in the day, if only to make it look like she was doing okay, better than the night before, even if she really wasn't. Ryan had changed into some of the clothes he keeps at her place for the nights he stays over.

They'd both seemed to think that if they could get out of the clothes they'd slept in, the memories of the night before would come off with them. No such luck, not so far.

When she comes out of the bathroom and puts on her shoes, he wraps his arm around her waist and walks with her outside. The unspoken agreement seems to be that he'll drive. She stares out the window the whole time, as he drives with one hand on the wheel and the other wrapped in hers, resting on the folded-down cup holder between the seats. He must be really worried, she realizes, if he's not keeping both hands on the wheel. She's noticed how tense he can get about driving; this is a rare and notable relaxing of his usual standards. She should be touched, but all she feels is numb.

She joins him as they get out of the car, crossing around the front and going to take his hand. It really strikes her sometimes how far they've come from a few months before, when she'd found him just outside this building. They've both made the effort to trim down on their bad habits—cutting down on the smoking, for one; Ryan not going for drinks after the meetings, keeping more food in the house; Marissa cleaning out Isobel's things.

They've stopped grieving in the more unhealthy ways, but it's hitting her for real now that she _is_ still grieving. With Ryan, it had been easier to ignore it. It had been less a presence in her daily life, kept at bay by laughter and comfort and, dare she say it, love.

As they go inside, she squeezes his hand tighter and ignores the concerned look he shoots her. Any reassurance she could give him would be hollow—a lie.

After everyone's gotten settled with coffee and refreshments, Jeff offers everyone a congenial smile. "Hope everyone's Valentine's Day went well?"

She looks around quickly, sees a few nods of assent, a few thin smiles from the widows or widowers who perhaps aren't romantically involved again just yet but appreciate that for others, the sentiment has meaning. Ryan used to be one of those people, she thinks. He's not, not anymore. He's in love with her. That's something, at least.

She helped fix Ryan, even if she can't fix herself.

"I thought we'd talk about family members today," Jeff says, not sitting, but pacing, as he usually does for the first ten minutes or so, to gauge everyone's feelings and figure out how to proceed. "I know I usually let you guys pick the topic, but it seemed like something we don't often discuss, and it's a tricky topic. Family members can be a valuable support system, but they can also be a hindrance. Anyone have any thoughts?"

The silence lasts for barely a few seconds, and Marissa's the one to break it, saying, "I do."

Jeff nods at her to continue, and even if she feels Ryan's hand squeezing hers, can see him out of the corner of her eye, silently pleading with her to remain calm, she can't—not tonight.

"The blame. That's what I hate." She wishes admitting it would get the memories to stop, but it doesn't. It just brings them back full force. It feels like that day in the pool house, the day or two before New Year's, when she'd sat there remembering the ambulance, remembering them putting Isobel into a body bag and taking her away.

_She was sitting on the porch by the time they brought her body out on a gurney. Janet had come over from next door with a blanket to wrap her in—it might have been June, but Marissa was freezing, shaking from shock. She loved Janet, in that moment. Janet was the only one who'd actually come up to ask what was wrong, instead of just standing there gossiping._

"_Miss?" A paramedic stood in front of her, waiting for her to look up. "After the autopsy, there's arrangements that need to be made… you're her legal guardian, yes?"_

_She nodded, somehow. She was still breathing—that felt like enough of a triumph, honestly, but somehow her body was doing all the things she swore she couldn't do anymore. Isobel couldn't do them, so how could she?_

"_If she has any other family, you might want to give them a call…"_

_She didn't hear the rest, because Janet was trying to tell the man that Marissa was in shock, that she couldn't take any more instructions or questions, and as soon as Janet helped her up, her legs folded, and she crashed to the porch in a faint._

"What happened was… it wasn't my fault. There wasn't anything I could have done, but some of my family has been insisting there was. And I want to ignore it, but all it does is start me thinking, and I know I'm not supposed to dwell on it, but I do."

"I get that," Beth, one of the quieter members, says softly. "I mean, with Mom, it was an aneurysm—kind of a ticking time bomb—and we didn't really know, but… my siblings make it seem like I should have known, taken her to the doctors more…"

"It's kind of like that," Marissa concedes. "But at the same time it just—it isn't. What Iz did was her own decision, and I don't think I could've done a damn thing, so I wish they'd just _stop—_"

She has to close her eyes against the tears, though it's obvious from her voice cracking that she's upset, and she suddenly realizes that she doesn't _want_ support.

She just wants out.

Through her blurred vision, she gets up and leaves, taking her coat on the way out and pushing out the door. It only takes a second for her to think of a place to go. She's crossing the street before she realizes Ryan is rushing to catch up to her.

"Marissa—_Marissa!_" They've reached the sidewalk outside of the bar, and his hand wraps around her wrist before she can walk faster, try to avoid him. "You're not seriously going to the bar, are you?"

"Let _go_ of me, Ryan."

"Marissa, come on, you know it's not good for you—you've told me yourself you don't drink like you used to, not anymore—"

"You're one to talk about not drinking!" She spins to face him, wrenching her wrist out of his grasp as she does. She sees the hurt flash across his face, and she knows deep down that she'll regret saying that tomorrow, but now she's having difficulty caring, difficulty thinking about anything but the overwhelming need to get away and get _lost_.

"Maybe I can't talk, but there are better ways than this, all right? I just want to—"

"Help? Fine, Ryan, you can help. Maybe you can tell me you love me again; see if that does a damn thing!"

She's crying now, breathing so hard in the cold air that her lungs are burning and her chest hurts, and she reaches out to shove him back. He nearly loses his balance, but he plants his feet firmly on the concrete and refuses to move.

"You don't _get_ it, Ryan! Jenna and Cody—the McKeevers can't blame you for that! They don't blame you for just driving the damn car like you were supposed to! I was supposed to look after Iz, and now—"

"Now she's gone and you can't do anything about it. I can _get_ that, and I'm sorry if it doesn't help, but do you really think drinking is going to do you one better?"

"If it can make me forget for more than twenty seconds at a time? Yeah, I'd consider that one hell of an improvement." She turns away, closing her eyes for a second to try and stop the tears. "Don't follow me."

She pushes open the door of the bar and disappears inside.

* * *

Tequila. It was the one drink she'd allowed herself in college. She'd mostly played designated driver at Pepperdine—it gave her more of an excuse for not drinking than _"Well, you see, this one time I tried to kill myself in Tijuana…"_—but every once in a while, she'd had a shot or two with her roommate, Belinda, in celebration of an aced test or an upcoming break.

Those had been good times. She could remember times like that and smile, remember Belinda cheering her and pulling her onto the dance floor of one of the local clubs, or begging with her to come out because she was always the responsible one and she could have fun every once in a while, right?

Now, staring at the shot in front of her, she wishes it were that simple—a celebration. If this is a celebration of anything, it's of how much she fucked up. She thinks of Katie's objection to the single glass of wine, finds it funny that she'd never so much as taken a sip of alcohol when Iz had been staying, but that she's doing it now that she's gone.

She wonders how Will and Katie would react now. She's drowning her sorrows in a bar; is that enough _remorse_ for them?

She licks the side of her hand, pours the salt and licks it off in short order. She downs the shot and bites the lime, letting the juice kill some of the bitter taste. She signals for one more shot, because the lime might kill the taste, but the tequila hasn't killed the memories just yet.

_Janet left her after two hours, because it was getting close to five AM and her boys were going to be getting up to go to school soon enough. She'd wanted to make sure Marissa was okay after she'd regained consciousness. She'd told Marissa she could come back later, but Marissa had lied and said she'd be making arrangements._

_She'd already talked to Will and Katie, while she'd waited for the ambulance to come. Her ears were still ringing with Katie's screams, with the sound of Will slamming down the phone._

_With Janet gone, she could break slightly, and her hands shook as she dialed her father's number, trying to keep her breathing steady._

"_Marissa?" He sounded groggy and confused as he picked up the phone. "Sweetheart, it's nearly five in the morning over there; why are you—"_

"_Daddy?" she broke in, trying so hard not to cry, and he stopped talking for only a second, before he asked, based on her tone, what was wrong._

"_I—I don't know if I'm supposed to tell you, because I don't think they've started calling people yet, but… Dad, Isobel… she took her pills and some vodka and she…"_

_She was crying so hard she couldn't speak, and for at least a minute she just sat there, listening to her father try and soothe her over the phone, even if his voice was breaking._

"_Marissa… Christ… I can fly out there; if you need me, I'll—"_

"_N—no. Please, just… please go to the funeral; they don't—they don't want me there and I need someone to—"_

"_Shhh. Shhh, sweetheart, it'll be all right. I'll go out to Florida as soon as they've made the arrangements. After that, I'll come to New York, all right? You need someone else out there with you…"_

"_I had someone else," Marissa wanted to say. She closed her eyes and burrowed closer to her pillow, wanting to sleep, to forget. "And now she's gone."_

She remembers that feeling, a grief so strong she couldn't breathe, and as she takes another shot, she realizes Ryan might be right, that drinking isn't going to do her any favors. After all, if she can remember, it must not be doing any good…

She can pretend, though. She got good at pretending, as a kid. She got used to pretending she didn't notice that Jimmy always seemed to love Kirsten more than Julie. She got used to pretending that her mother's occasional remarks about her appearance didn't hurt. She got used to pretending that riding Kaitlin's pony China on the weekends had taken her problems away.

She can get used to pretending nothing hurts.

* * *

Ryan goes back to his car and drives it to the bar's parking lot, where he sits for three hours. It's cold, but he gets some heat circulating every twenty minutes or so. He keeps looking out his side mirror, watching the bar's entrance.

It's almost midnight when he finally sees the barkeep, Jaime, walk Marissa out. He gets out of the car and stops Jaime from calling a taxi, telling him he can take her home, and Jaime nods and helps him walk her to the car. They carry her weight between them, and he's at least glad that Jaime knows him well enough to trust him with Marissa, because he doesn't want her alone.

She's just about unconscious, and Jaime confirms that she'd had a lot of tequila, though he'd cut her off after he'd judged by her weight and the obvious signs that she'd had enough. Ryan thanks Jaime for looking after her, makes sure he's done her seatbelt, then gets in the car himself to drive her home.

* * *

She won't remember much of the night. Indeed, waking up the next morning, one of the only things she _does_ remember is regaining consciousness a few times and being sick when she had. She remembers spending the night on Ryan's bathroom floor—he'd been there with her, holding her hair back and keeping her steady.

When she wakes up for good, she's prepared for the light to hurt her eyes, but when she opens them, it's mercifully dim; the lights are off in the bathroom. She's lying on her side on the rug, and she realizes that he must've changed her into some of the clothes she keeps at his place. She pulls herself up off the floor, and though the room sways some, she braces herself against the sink counter until it stops. Her toothbrush is resting there, and she brushes her teeth to get the bad taste out of her mouth.

When she goes downstairs, she finds Ryan at the kitchen table. He looks exhausted, she realizes with a pang of regret; his eyes are closed and he's leaning back against the wall, almost dozing. Her footsteps on the threshold wake him up within seconds.

"You're awake," he says, and she bites her lip and realizes she can't come up with a better response than, "So are you, it looks like."

He points to a brown paper bag sitting on the table. "There's a muffin in there, some Tylenol. It'll help the hangover."

"You're acting like I've never had one before."

"Marissa." He runs his hand absently through his hair, sighing, and she feels that bit of regret again; she knows she shouldn't have snapped at him.

She gets a glass of water from the sink and swallows down the Tylenol, and she picks at the muffin before she pushes the plate away and looks up at him. "Can we just… talk?"

"I don't think there's much to talk about."

"Ryan, please, I'm trying to—" She doesn't have much of a right to beg, she realizes. She'd treated him horribly, said some awful things outside the bar, but he'd still stayed. He'd still taken care of her. Somehow that makes everything hurt worse.

"Would you mind if I went to lie down?" she says finally, lamely. "I just… the Tylenol isn't going to kick in just yet and my head is killing me."

He points in the general direction of the staircase, and she heads up to his bedroom, settling on her side of the bed and closing her eyes. The relief isn't much, but it's there.

She thinks she must be dreaming when she hears footsteps on the stairs, because she can't see him coming to her when he's still so frustrated, but no, the bed is shifting under his weight as he sits on the other side. She opens her eyes, sees him sitting there silently, and bites her lip.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly. "I know that doesn't even begin to cover it."

"Sorry for drinking, or for what you said?"

"Both. I don't even know which one feels worst, to be honest with you. I just—I shouldn't have said what I did, about you saying you love me. I'm… really going to regret that."

"Don't. It's pointless to dwell on it when it already happened."

"Guess you're right." She closes her eyes again and stretches one of her arms out, trying to relieve the soreness still lingering in her body from spending the night on the bathroom floor, and to her surprise, he takes her hand, plays with her fingers.

"You said last night I didn't get it. That the McKeevers can't blame me for driving the car."

"Ryan, I was… I was just so angry; I know I shouldn't have…"

"No. I'm not saying it to make you feel bad." He inhales, lets the breath out, takes a second before he speaks. "I'm saying it because you were right, but you were also wrong. The McKeevers don't blame me. But I've blamed myself."

"Why?"

The admission startles her so much that she opens her eyes again and almost goes to sit up, but the hangover makes her reconsider that motion, so she settles for squeezing his hand, a plea for an answer.

"It wasn't a collision. But for a while, after the accident, I wished it was, because then the fault would've been off of me. The other guy weaved into our lane. It wasn't his fault—he wasn't drunk or anything; it was just raining too hard and he lost control for barely two seconds. It happens. He'd probably corrected himself by the time I swerved. If I'd kept control, if I hadn't swerved when it was so wet… I spent so many nights replaying it in my head."

"Ryan, the fault was never _on_ you. You did what anyone would have. If you hadn't swerved, if you're wrong about him correcting himself, he could've hit you. You had your wife and baby in the car with you; you did what you did to avoid an accident—"

"And one still happened." He squeezes her hand gently, brings it to his lips and kisses it softly. "You don't have to try and justify it to me; I've already done it. But do you see why I told you? You did the same thing, Marissa. You did what you could to help Isobel, and it didn't work, and she's gone. But you tried. Just like I did. You tried, and you can't blame yourself for how it turned out, all right? I don't want to hear you blaming yourself again."

She feels stupid, but she's nearly crying. "You're being too good about this, you know that? Ryan, I fucked up last night, and you still took care of me. Who _does_ that? You should've just walked away—"

"Listen to me." He reaches out and gently cups her face, making her look at him. "I don't walk away. I won't—not from you. I watched my mom drink her life away and if I can stop you from repeating last night, I will. I meant it when I said it two nights ago—I love you, Marissa. Nothing you could do would make me leave. I'll be here if you screw up. I'll be here because you told me that night in the car that you needed me."

"Still do," Marissa says quietly. She might've made mistakes, but she's realizing that for once, someone's willing to stick around for her after she's made them. Ryan, who knows more than she'd thought—who understands.

She leans forward to kiss him, before wrapping her arms around him and holding on. "Hey, Ryan?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

She looks up at him with the ghost of a smile on her lips, and she's rewarded by the sound of him laughing softly, happily, as he kisses her forehead and whispers "thank you" in her ear.


End file.
